


Between Bloods

by macbethsfool1511



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Assault, Attacks, Awkward, Drugs and drug use, F/M, Fluff, Light Smut, Mentions of Rape, Mentions of Suicide, Murder, Mycroft being an asshole, Mycroft flirting, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Fluff, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Stalker, Violence, bad language, it will be like team jacob vs team edward, long chapters, memories of Sherlock, memories of Sherlock being an asshole, mycroft fluff, poetic smut, thats why we read fanfiction, this would never happen in the show but i dont care, which brother?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 138,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27511891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macbethsfool1511/pseuds/macbethsfool1511
Summary: Noreen loved Sherlock, and Sherlock dies.Noreen loved Sherlock, now Noreen cries.Many flowers, many more tears.Then new love bloomed over those two years.Copyright: I do not own any of the BBC Sherlock characters or plots, only my own original character Noreen Jacobs.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Original Female Character(s), Mycroft Holmes/Reader, Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character, Sherlock Holmes/Reader
Comments: 217
Kudos: 127





	1. One Month

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the end of the chapter for notes on the timeline I am following and other such details. Enjoy!

_One month after_

Upon waking, the sound of birds chirping joyfully greeted my ears. The mother had been constructing a small nest outside my window on a branch for two months now. She had arrived while you were still.. _present_ , carrying sticks and leaves, grass and dried mud, anything that would hold the eggs she would soon nest on. Being in a flat on the second floor of a building had its advantages, but mostly, I was thankful to be at eye level with these feathered friends.

You had watched them with me in the mornings, those mornings when you would greet me out of my dream state. I begged you to sleep over, almost every night in fact. You always denied my request, sometimes with a curt _"_ no,"and other times with a joke. But you were there in the mornings, as if you never left.

_"Do you know why your name is Noreen?" you had inquired one night, moments after I made my nightly plea for you to stay. I was already under the covers, scooted all the way to edge of the bed to make room for you, just in case your mind changed. It never did._

_"Please, enlighten me with your answer, Mr. Holmes," I had responded, too skeptical to guess_ _—whatever you said would be something I could have never imagined—_ _but too curious not to inquire further._

_You smirked, one side of your mouth curving up to create a crease beside your nose, while your eyes remained steady on mine. "Because it is so easy for me to say 'no' to you. Your parents named you NO-reen solely for this moment, and every moment in the future, that I will say 'no' to you. Which will be a lot considering you tend to ask things that I have no intention of obliging to, and saying statements that warrant a correction in response because you are so often wrong."_

_Your playful smirk increased to a smile, and you fought back to urge to look too pleased with yourself as you waited for my response. "So my parents lied to me then?" I bit my lip so I did not inflate your egoistic head too much with my laugh. "I was not named after my dad's sitter he had as a child who painted peacefully for him every night as he fell asleep? Instead, I was named just for this moment with you, and every moment, where you get to be a complete arse and reject my offer to share a bed with me?" I arched an eyebrow in disbelief. You almost broke into fits of laughter, I could see it. But just like that, you composed yourself. Logic regained control._

_"Exactly." You had stood then, trailing your fingers against my shoulder long enough to be purposeful, before disappearing out my bedroom door. You closed it as you left, not bothering to look back because you knew I was staring after you; you often left me in shock. I listened as you pattered out the door of my flat and locked it, double checking it was secure. In the morning, as light rays peeked through my eyelids, you would be back again as if you had never left. Not every morning, of course, but many._

_You sat on top of the covers, eyes laced over me. I pretended not to feel those gentle blues caressing my every feature. You greeting me as I waked will always be the highlight of my days. Already dressed in your suit, hair marvelously messy, you would declare: "The birds, they are awake." And leaning closer, your lips centimeters from my ear, you would order me, even louder: "So get up you lazy maid!"_

Oh how romantic you were. I was thankful to have given you that key to my home. You probably fell, from all the way up St. Bart's, with that key in your pocket. As you hit the ground, the key bounced elsewhere, away from your coat and out of sight. Maybe down a storm drain, or a crack in the sidewalk. Or maybe you, Sherlock Holmes, were smart enough to not bring the key with you to your planned death, just in case Moriarty grabbed it and decided to hunt me down and kill me afterwards. But he killed himself too, so I guess I am safe. 

My spare key was never found. I like to think it is sitting in 221B, stowed away from searching eyes.

Only you know where it is, and I am okay with you taking that to the grave.

\---

The bell above the door in Barney's Bouquets rang as I waltzed in minutes later than I had promised Becca. Green Spice flowers were poking out from a box I picked up as a donation from a local garden. Becca, my trusty employee who had been managing the shop for a month now since.. _you know_ , came to take the Greens out of my hands, shooting me a quick nod of acknowledgement before walking to the back of the shop. It was still ten minutes until opening, thank goodness. I scanned around the store, making sure everything was in its place. Was that statue of a gnome always there, next to the register?

"Your dad called about ten minutes ago," Becca informed me, drawing me out of my confusion about the red-hatted gnome holding up his hand to wave. "I told him you weren't in yet, but he wants you to call him back when you are available." 

I nodded. "Thank you." 

She offered a kind smile, an air of uncertainty spreading around our body of conversation. I knew she was unsure of what to say, what to do. She had relaxed a bit since Monday, when I first returned, but she was tip-toeing.

Prior to.. _the incident,_ Becca and I were quite good friends—well, as good as friends you could be with someone you worked with five days a week for two years. We hung outside of work, stopping to get drinks and such. She had been working here for about two years, and I was thankful for her stable presence in the last 8 months since my dad and mum left me the business and moved out to the country towards my sister and her growing family. I was left here, alone, with my great-grandpa's flower shop. My parents had not considered that perhaps I would have rather use my years of managing this business with them, and the two or three classes I took at Uni, to work elsewhere besides a family owned business. But I suppose my subconscious choice to drop out of Uni in the first month and dedicate all hours of my week to this corner shop in London was an indication that I could not imagine myself anywhere else. 

School was not for me, but beautifully arranged flowers on the other hand, well you do not need a degree for that. Especially when you had an entire family—my dad, mum, sister, and grandparents—all working together. In truth, I learned my arrangements from the master himself: Grandpa Barney Jr.. And he learned from his father, the original Barney.

My parents still managed parts of the shop, mostly logistics that could be handled through a computer, but I was the face of the shop. Yippee. We had other employees: Max, a boy still in secondary school, and Evelyn and Carl—a semi-elderly married couple (Evelyn is a retired lawyer who wanted a simpler job, and Carl was a fishing guide for 40 years). Together, the five of us: Becca, Max, Evelyn, Carl and I ran the shop six days a week (Monday-Saturday), from 9:00am to 5:00pm. It was a simple business, our busiest days of the year being Valentine's Day and Mother's Day. We created flowers for weddings, parties.. _funerals_ , etc. 

As I walked back to the front door, flipping over the sign so the word "CLOSED" faced me instead of potential patrons, I made sure to take a deep breath. The shop smelled faintly of dirt, but mostly it was overwhelmed by the variety of perennials that were delivered yesterday and were now cooling in the fridges. Begonias that had been here for a little over a week were stinking up the left corner, begging for someone to buy them. If no one did by the end of the day, then I settled to construct a bouquet and drop them by John's.

I had not seen him in sometime, not since I collected a few belongings from the flat two weeks ago—a scarf, one heel that you had used for an experiment, a cheap pair of reading glasses, and a half empty bottle of dry shampoo. How John could stand being in the flat was a mystery to me. Standing inside, just a week after.. _it_ happened _,_ the wallpaper made me sick and the floating dust that still contained some of you was unbearable. Perhaps I would just leave the bouquet at the door.

Already, I saw some customers eyeing our winter collection in the front windows, and I projected that it would be a busy day. This is good. Having only been back a week, I was thankful for the quick pace of people milling in and out, some requesting a bouquet for a lover, another for their friend's.. _loss._

You had called me _the florist_. When you skulked in with John that first time, him picking up flowers for a date he was to attend, I should not have been surprised that the name stuck, even as our relationship progressed.

_"John," you had groaned in protest, "the chances of you actually doing anything with this woman besides a nightly shag are quite low. Therefore, the investment of time and money, especially in something as short lived as smelly plants, is a loss. Come with me on this case, which is a real investment. If you take this offer, not only will your attraction to blood and death be fulfilled, but you shall receive a nice cuppa from Mrs. Hudson when we return. Bonus: you may experience the swelling of your heart as you come to believe you had made London a better place by solving a murder, or whatever makes you humans feel good enough to sleep at night."_

It had been hard not to eavesdrop. I can comfortably say that it was not every day a famous detective and detective blogger entered. Although I had never seen you in person, I recognized your lean figure tucked inside a long coat. I remembered John, handsome in his jumper, grabbing a bouquet of flowers mindlessly and without consideration behind the meaning of their colors and petals. No one was in the shop besides you and John, and I was the last to close that night. Fate, some might say, or just luck.

 _"Really? Those?" you had remarked, snorting at his choice. "If you are going to blow off exploring homicide, at least make_ _the right choice in flowers for the poor girl."_

 _"Can I help you two?" I had asked, cautiously stepping forward._ _Although murder was no where near my specialty, first date flowers definitely were._

 _"Ah, yes,_ _thank you_ _" said John, grinning gratefully._

 _"Oh please," you had scoffed, running your dismissive gaze quickly over me, "ask_ the florist _for help rather than me."_

 _John turned to you, mouth ajar with wonder at how you could be so self-absorbed._ I am unsure now of how he always managed to be surprised when you were a complete prick. John being the good man he is, defended me: _"She is a specialist in this Sherlock, I think she knows what she's talking about."_

_"Well I am a specialist in everything else, so you could have asked me for help instead. You are always choosing women over me." John did not notice the teasing pull of your lips as you said this, but I did. I wanted to chuckle._

_"FINE!" exclaimed John, throwing his hands in the air and almost dropping the flowers._ _"I will go on the bloody case with you, for Christ's sake." I watched as a triumphant smirk grew on your face, but when you caught me looking, it went back to a straight line. I blushed and looked at my hands. "I would still like to get her some flowers though, as an apology," John added with a defeated tone and look. He directed his next question towards me: "Any suggestions for apology flowers?"_

_I nodded in response. "Follow me." I walked behind the counter, reaching into the refrigerator for a bouquet I had mindlessly worked on earlier that day while it was slow: a potpourri of pink orchids and champagne roses. Additionally folded in neatly were Queen Anne's Lace. It was quite the "I'm sorry" bouquet if I've ever seen one._

_"Here it is," I said, bringing it out on the counter._

_"Beautiful," remarked John, pulling out his wallet and making eye contact with me. "Seriously, thank you. You have quite the talent. How long have you been doing this for?"_

_"Since I was young, before I could talk even. Flower arranging runs in our blood."_

_"Impossible," you had butted in. "Nothing runs in our blood except plasma, cells, and platelets. Also, speech begins to develop in tiny humans as early as six months, and words begin to really form around 12 months. Therefore, it is impossible that your dexterity was advanced enough to create bouquets while you were still suckling on your mother."_

_Before I had a chance to even process what just came out of your mouth, John responded. "Excuse him. Please try to forget what he has said and enjoy your night." He motioned for you to follow him at the door, but you lingered a little longer in front of me. I wanted to ask what you were staring at, but I could not form the words. Not when you were looking at me._

_When John had apologized on your behalf, you raised your eyebrows as if to agree with him. "Just stating facts," you replied, turning to walk out the door with a swish of your coat._

That was the first you left me speechless, and there were many more to follow.

_\---_

Just before lunch today, the "ding" of the bell alerted me that someone had entered the shop, and I groaned when I saw who.

"Mycroft."

"Noreen."

"To what do I owe this pleasure? Are you in need of some flowers for a mystery mistress?" 

He made a disgusted face. "No, never." He cleared his throat. "You have missed the last two sessions with your therapist."

"And your point is?"

His gazed remained icy and unmoving on me as my question was left hanging in the air. One hand was positioned stoically on his umbrella and the other draped in his pants pocket. He opened his mouth to speak, contracting his jaw so as not to spit harsh words out at me. He knew I was still fragile. "Considering I am the sole patron for these sessions you are receiving from Britain's best, I must insist you attend. In fifteen minutes." The stare he gave was abominable.

I narrowed my eyes back at him as the familiar feeling of shame and surrender clouded over me. I tried to fight back both emotions, knowing full well I would give in easily—he was paying for me. "Unfortunately, Mycroft, my shop is a half hour walk to the therapist, so I will not be able to make it to today's session. I promise you I will attend next—"

"My car is out front," he interrupted, tight lips coiling into a haughty smile, "so yes, you can make it on time."

As I was beginning to protest, Becca stepped up. "Go," she ordered, and I turned to see her motioning her eyes toward the door. There was a dirt stain above her eyebrow, and the clothes that were pressed and prim this morning were now shattered with wrinkles and pollen. Her mouth was drawn down as she spoke. "Noreen, seriously, go. It's your first week back. Just.. You need this, please," she begged. I was unsure if she begged for the sake of my mental wellbeing, or because Mycroft's coldness seemed to be casting an icy glaze over our usually colourful shop.

"Fine," I grumbled, equally pissed at both of them. It was annoying, really, to be offered services that I did not ask for. John was able to reject Mycroft's advances without scolding, but for some reason I was the constant target.

A week after you.. _passed_ , Mycroft came knocking at my flat door. He informed me that grieving might be achieved through the company of a professional, rather than my dark and cold room.

_"He's gone," Mycroft stated, as if it was the easiest fact in the world. I buried my face deeper into the pillow. The birds chirped outside the window, and I felt my heart sink deeper. New eggs hatched, three days ago._

_You missed it._

_"I am aware," I spoke back to him, voice hoarse with dryness. I cleared it and continued. "I am aware of his absence, Mycroft. What will a therapist do to change that?"  
_

_He was so stiff, unmoving, like a ghost in my room. "A therapist has no intention of changing the fact. It is impossible," he replied. I was not facing him, but I imagined his upturned nose and tight lipped look, probably appalled at how utterly pathetic I looked as my human emotions drowned me. "But," he started again, a tad softer, "they will help you move on, to keep going, to feel... not like this."_

_"I like feeling like this." Silence met my response, something so uncharacteristic of know-it-all Mycroft. "I like feeling this, this raw pain that gnaws at my heart and head and everywhere. It is better than repressing them and pretending he never existed, as it appears you have done. Sherlock was real, and is real, to me. This pain, it proves that. So let me... just let me be attached to him like this."_

_My voice was cracking with pain and anger and sadness. The tears that had been stalled for days made a reappearance, matting my eyelashes with memories of you. I expected Mycroft to leave me, all alone, how I wanted. But he didn't, and I began to understand your incessant irritation with the man._

_"No," was what he said, after I pour out my raw emotions. A strict no. "Get up, get dressed, and I will take you. Now."_

I like to think that I went of my own accord that first time. But really, it was the frustration and certainty in Mycroft's tone that dragged me out of bed. Part of me thought he felt guilty. How had he, the pronounced genius Mycroft Holmes, not have seen this coming from his dear little brother? Was he not the bloody British Government; literally and figuratively the Big Brother to all of England? This was his way of making it up, as best he could, to a person you.. _cared_ for. He did not offer condolences nor comfort, but he offered money and help. 

There was a moment before I got out of bed that first day to visit the therapist where I thought: _would you want me to do this?_

Again, dragging my feet through the shop as I went to grab my bag and coat, I wished you were here to pout with me. One month was not long enough to dull any feeling. But you were gone, before I could even say goodbye. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, welcome to beginning of a heartbreaking, painstakingly slow building fan fiction that we all need. I don't know about all of you, but I miss the Sherlock series dearly!
> 
> This is just the beginning chapter, and I plan for this book to be a slow and painful process. If you are up for the challenge, and the emotions, then stick with me! 
> 
> Currently, I am in my second year of writing a thesis. Why I decided now was the best time to start on a journey of writing this fan fiction is a mystery to me, but my husband is cheering me on and keeping me accountable to update as much as possible. 
> 
> Really, this is just an outlet for me to still be creative while I am in the suffocating, academic atmosphere. I realize that many of the things I write about the series (timelines, characters, events, etc.) may be inaccurate, but I do not have the headspace, nor energy, to do all the research. So any suggestions or tips help, but please be patient with me! I want us all to enjoy this!
> 
> For reference, here is a timeline I am loosely referring to: https://bakerstreet.fandom.com/wiki/Sherlock_Timeline#2011 (Or just look up "Baker Street Fandom Sherlock timeline).
> 
> Side note: Italics in the story is a flashback. There will be MANY of those. 
> 
> Side note part two: These will be long chapters! Pro: When I update, it will not be short (I am not a cheapskate). Con: Perhaps you do not enjoy short chapters. Also, it may take me longer to update. But it will be worth it!
> 
> I hope you enjoy meeting Noreen and hearing her story. 
> 
> Cheers! 


	2. Two Months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of murder and rape in this chapter. Also, bad language.
> 
> Quick timeline explanation: I am going off the idea that Sherlock jumped in November, thus the first chapter took place in December (so sorry for skipping the holidays), and this chapter takes place in January!

_Two months after_

After Mycroft fetched me from my flower shop that day, I attended the therapist religiously, every week. But tonight, it had been too much. She, the therapist, had asked me to remember you, just before the fall. What was our last moment we shared together? How were you acting? Did you let on what was happening inside your head? I told her the truth.

I never knew what the fuck was going on inside your head.

It is not clear in my mind, the last time I saw you. Perhaps if I had known it was the last time, then I could have held it closer in my memory. I do not know the last words you spoke to me, nor the last touch you gave me. There lies in my mind a faint goodbye, one that went without notice. It may have been a touch of your fingers to mine, the slight brush of your lips against my head as I leaned into you slightly; our classic makeshift hug.

And for this reason, I feel guilty.

I do not remember as I should.

So now I find myself at the bar, a handful of pints in, pretending I am not a heartbroken 29 year old woman. Instead, tonight, I am a 29 year old business owner, an amateur film buff, an avid speed walker (running is the death of me), and a future dog mom to a Bernese. I like dark roast coffee with a dallop of cream, mint chocolate chip ice cream with peanut butter, and my favorite vegetable is zucchini. I find joy in trade-in bookstores, my two year old niece, and perfectly arranged flowers. I am a _normal_ woman, one who does not have a famous detective boyfriend that off'd himself. 

I am Noreen Jacobs.

"Refill?" asks the bartender. I push my glass over to him and rest my face in my arms. He takes this as a yes, and in seconds the cold glass is back in my hand. My head is starting to feel heavy, the alcohol tipping it either which way. I'm not a big drinker, just the occasional bottle of wine or pint of IPA. I check my watch, but the numbers fuse together. I settle for reading the time on a microwave behind the bar they use to heat up food for patrons. Not the most classy of pubs to enter, but it was just down the street from dreaded Dr. Davies' office.

"Does that clock say 2:56?" I ask the bartender, pointing towards the microwave. There's no way it's still that early in the afternoon—I started my meeting at.. 6:00pm? Maybe it's 2:56am.. How long have I been here?

The bartender chuckles. "No, that's how long is left until a customer's pretzel is done heating up."

I open my mouth into the shape of an "oh" as I notice the analog has changed from 2:56 to 2:34 in the time I spoke. At least their pretzel will be ready soon.

I grab the bartender's attention again. "Well then what time is it?"

"Uh, 9:35pm," he answers after glancing at his own wrist. While drying a glass he gives me the side eye, and I know what he will ask. "Need me to call a cab?"

I wave him away as I gulp down another drink. At this point, the beer is more like water. I haven't eaten in 4 hours. But I am totally fine. Completely fine. "My—uh, boyfriend, yeah he will be here soon to pick me up," I reply. My pokerface is known to be shit, but I think he believes me. The bartender nods, his attention being summoned elsewhere by another customer.

I remember what you told me once, a couple months into our relationship. If I was ever alone and a man asked me if I needed help getting home:

 _"Always say your_ person _is coming to pick you up," you ordered. We were in the kitchen of 221B. You were playing with some petri dish on one side of the table_ (you are probably rolling in your grave at my choice of the word "play," but really, you looked to be playing), _and I sat across from you reading a cheap novel that Mrs. Hudson had left laying around._

 _"My_ person _?" I questioned, giving you an odd look. "Like my mom or something?"_

 _"No," you sighed, rolling your eyes to the ceiling. "Your_ person _, like me, I'm your person!"_

_"You mean my boyf—"_

_"Don't finish that sentence," you said, holding up your hand to stop me. "But yes, say you are calling_ me _to pick you up from whatever gross establishment you find yourself in. Whatever label you refer to me by is fine. Just, uh, make sure you, um, say I am coming because I will be there. Before you even finish telling them, I, erm, will be there. Right away. To take you home." You struggled so hard to get that out, your eyes focused in on the petri dish like your life depended on it. I took a moment to admire your curls._

_Then something clicked in my brain._

_"What made you think of this?" I asked, although I was pretty sure I already knew. We hadn't been speaking prior to your little outburst, so there was no conversation that led us to this point. You had already been thinking about it. You were worried, about me._

_No answer came from you, and I set down my book as I stared at your form across the table. "Sherlock," I started, "is this because of the woman you found the other day?" There had been a dead body called in, found thrown into a dumpster. Turns out, from your 30 second deduction, she had left the bar without her friends, was stalked and raped by a stranger who was married and had kids, then killed so that she could never identify him. Now I saw you were worried about me, worried that I could become that woman._

_"Sherlock," I repeated again since you continued to focus on the dish instead of me._

_"I—" you swallowed, eyes flicking up to meet mine. Emotion glittered for seconds before you reigned them in. Back to stone cold. "I think it would be very unfortunate if a similar situation happened with you."_

_"And?" I asked, begging for more. We had been dating for two months and our affection was minimal. Not that I expected more, I knew you cared in your own way, but there were days I needed more than just the facts and logic. Somedays I wanted a soft Sherlock, but I had yet to discover him._

_You continued: "And so, as I said, inform whatever despicable male creature approaches you that your_ person _will be there and will rip them limb for limb if they so much as even breathe in your general direction."_

_"Duly noted," I chimed happily, placing a soft hand on your tensed up fists. Immediately, they relaxed._

I drained my beer, closed my tab, and swayed all the way to the door of the pub. It was late winter, cold and dark, but the breeze was sobering. Now it was time to get home. I sighed, glancing from side to side. People were walking both ways, and cars drove by on the street. The twenty minute trek home sounded horrible, but I had spent so much on the beer that a cab was out of question. I glanced down at my feet, thankful I wore sneakers and not heels.

Stepping onto the sidewalk with the sea of people, it was almost easy to forget about you. I was focused on each step I took, which became harder as I realized those beers were beginning to catch up to me. I paid careful attention not to fall on each person around me, and I read every street sign with caution so I did not miss a turn. I had to be at the shop early tomorrow morning, 7:00am, to prepare bouquets for a bridal shower that were to be picked up at opening. Getting lost in London was not the ideal situation for the night; I longed to be in bed already.

Again, it was easy to forget about you as I tried to hide my drunken steps, my vision constantly swimming and swaying.

Then my phone buzzed.

Glancing down at the screen, I groaned once my eyes focused enough to read the name; this was the ceremonious sound I made whenever Mycroft popped up on my radar, both physically and digitally.

"Yessh?" I asked, holding the phone up to my ear. I was waiting for the crosswalk to signal go.

"You're drunk," he stated, oh so matter-of-factly.

"And you know this how?" I asked. I spotted a camera on the street above me as I began stumbling again, and I waved to it. "Oh, there you are."

"Charming. Now stay where you are, I am almost to you." I could picture his unimpressed face, and imagined him thinking he would always have to save his little brother's pitiful _person_.

"Mycroft," I snapped back, "I don't need a ride home. It's already bad enough that you force a therapist on me in the last two months, and now you are treating me like a child."

"Oh yes, Noreen, it must be so hard to have someone care for you." 

Before I could retort, he spoke again.

"Now get in."

A sleek, dark silver car pulled up to the sidewalk beside me, purring as it waited. I stomped over, determined to chew Mycroft out for all of his meddling and spying. The door popped open for me and when I climbed inside, I stared daggers at the tall man across the seat dressed in a crisp suit and snobbish sneer.

"You are the worst," I commented, huffing and turning to look out the window as the drive began.

"A simple 'thank you' would have sufficed, but I do appreciate the compliment." The dryness in his voice was unbearable, yet very clever, and all I could do was stare out the window. The Holmes' were always leaving me without words. Additionally, my tongue felt parched and lights blurred all around me. But his driver was taking, what appeared to be, all the right streets to get me home.

"How do you know where I live?" I asked, still refusing to look at him next to me.

"I know everything," he answered. I stole a glance at him and found that, he too, was looking out the window at the night sky.

Before he could notice my stare, I turned my head back towards my own window, too quickly. And that's when a wave of nausea hit me. I lay my head against the cool glass, hoping it would just go away. I had been moving fast, turning my head every which way in the moving car, and now as the driver made turns and hit little bumps in the road, all my pints felt like they wanted to be tasted again. 

I swallowed constantly, hoping _it_ would stay in for the next, well, however long it took to get me home.

"Mycroft," I muttered, "how much longer till.." I couldn't even finish my sentence before the bile began to creep up my throat. 

"Are you going to.. _puke_?" He said it with such contempt and disgust that I wished I had puked right then and there, all over him and his precious car. 

"Yes, I am going to blow chunks in the next three minutes, so can—" Again I had to stop, breathe, and swallow.

Mycroft pounded on the divide between the driver and the backseat. "Norman, how much longer?" he asked, quite breathlessly. I had never witnessed him be so frazzled.

"Two minutes," replied the driver. "Shall I go faster, sir?"

"Yes, please," answered Mycroft, eyeing me uncertainly. 

"I told you that you shouldn't have picked me up," I said, my eyes closed and face pressed against the cold glass as much as possible. "If I throw up in here, don't blame me. I never asked you to care for me."

"Noreen, and please know I am being quite sincere when I say this," he began, turning towards me. I could not help but lean in. Mycroft being sincere? With me? His little brother's _person_ that he gave no notice to for months on end. Oh, I had to hear this. 

"You are the most ungrateful person I have ever happened upon." The smug smile and mischievous eyes he gave me was utterly despicable, full of sass that I was not up to dealing with at the moment. He made my blood boil so much that the alcohol was whisked away, replaced by fury.

"And you are the most heartless," I yelled, just a little too loud. He cocked an eyebrow up at me, but stayed quiet as he let my rant continue. "You—you do not even care that your brother died! Where is your therapist, Mycroft? Why are you not getting drunk at bars? Or crying over memories? Or doing anything besides being a complete ARSE to me? You act as if I asked for the car rides home or expensive whatevers, but I don't! I want you to leave me alone."

"Uh, sir, we have arrived," murmured Norman the driver, rolling down the divide a bit as I finished my tangent. His wide eyes flashed in the rearview mirror for a moment as they met mine before quickly darting down. He rolled the divider up and I took the moment to swiftly wipe tears that had gathered at the corners of my eyes during my fit.

"Thank you, Norman," replied Mycroft. We stared each down. My outburst, which felt good in the moment, had now drained me. I felt nauseous again. Defeated. Overdue for my bedtime.

Mycroft's lips parted, and I braced myself for the worst. He spoke slow and with deliberation, every word a deep pierce inside of me.

"Noreen, you cannot stay sad forever. This life you live is not a movie with an orchestrated soundtrack rising up to meet your every move, directing your fate. You are in control of your own emotions—not mine, yours. Do not be upset when others have begun to accept what has happened and you are still in denial. It has been two months. Let us all move on."

Without responding, I exited the car and slammed the door. I shook my head, trying to forget his stupid words. He did not listen, that man.

"Noreen, one more thing." I turned around on the sidewalk, just outside the door of my building. His window was rolled down partly, same pretentious look plastered on his face. I stared, waiting for him to speak.

"Self-pity does not look good on you."

Again, more stupid fucking words.

\---

_The next day_

The alarm clock rang at an ungodly hour while darkness still painted over the sky. Had I not been drunk, it may have taken me hours to fall asleep last night. But after a hot shower and slipping into a pajama set so well worn there were holes in the pits, I passed out. Now I had a headache and a dry throat. But it was extra hard to get up this morning for a different reason as well:

Today was your birthday. 

Happy birthday, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. 

The world's only consulting detective. Also the world's greatest kisser, but I usually kept that one to myself.

It is possible your impending birthday was the cause of last night's drunken bash and angry tirade towards Mycroft. John and I made plans to visit your.. _grave_ today, then have lunch together. A few days ago, John asked Mycroft to join and he declined, claiming he had to work. Well, Mycroft _always_ has to work, besides when decides to impart himself upon my life without request. If he can take time to unwillingly cater to me, he can take time to visit you. 

I am quite sure he knew I was upset by this last night, but he did not bring it up on the delightful car ride home, so neither did I.

I did not bring up any of this yesterday, actually, because I dreaded this day coming for so long. Now, I would never get to celebrate with you. No birthday cake, no gift, no you. I missed it last year, and you missed it this year.

Bonus heartbreak: tomorrow would have been our one year anniversary of dating. 

It just kept adding up. To think about you, waltzing into my shop almost a year ago.. it made me break into hysterical tears and laughter. You were bold, Sherlock Holmes, very bold.

_The shop was busy for a Thursday afternoon. After helping a woman buy flowers for her daughter's dance recital, I noticed a familiar curly haired man entering through the front door. You looked right at me and marched forward. John, who had become a regular customer over the long months I got to know you, was not with you today. A rare sighting._

_"Mr. Holmes?" I greeted. I called you by your last name, and you called me by my.. job title. I felt it was a flirtatious game, but I figured you enjoyed the formality as well. There was a part of me that hoped you thought it was flirting as well. I also worried you actually didn't know my name._

_"Florist, I am in need of flowers." You stood tall, straight, hands behind the back. I tried to resist eyeing the bit of white skin above your blue, wrinkle-free button up._

Okay, I may have developed a small crush on you over the course of those four months you had begun to inhabit my shop, but those memories were for a different time.

_"Congratulations for entering the right storefront," I remarked, beginning to walk around the counter and towards a fridge holding a beautiful bouquet I had concocted the day before. I refrained from asking what you were looking for, assuming it had to do with Mrs. Hudson or an order for John. Or maybe your mother was in town. "How about this?" I asked, motioning to the fridge. You had followed me over, and I liked knowing you traced my steps behind me._

_"Is that your best recommendation?" you inquired, eyes scanning over the plum pansies with praecox stems and winter cherry flowers. It was quite fitting for the cold weather, perfect for sitting atop a dining table or the corner of a room to add color where needed._

_My palms began to sweat. Did you think it was ugly? Why did you ask me that? "Yes, it is my best that is available. But I neglected to ask who or what it's for exactly. My recommendation may change depending on the person."_

_Your eyes flashed quickly to mine, then back to the bouquet. "It's for a generic person," you said, rather quickly. "Is this really your favorite?" You asked again, eyes narrowed at me, intensity dripping from them._

_"Umm, yes," I answered, rather uncertain. If you thought it was so ugly, you could just look elsewhere. My shop was not the only flower shop in town. "January is a great season for purples," I added, deciding it was better not to lose business no matter how rude the customer may be._

_You held my gaze, an almost suspicious look about you. "I'll take them," you said. Then you turned and walked to stand in front of the register._

_I shook my head, feeling like I was in a daze. I grabbed the vase and walked to ring you up._

_"Debit, credit, cash?" I asked, watching as you pulled a single sleek card from your coat before I finished speaking. No wallet? Of course you did not have one. Sherlock Holmes has to be anything but an average person._

_I felt your eyes on me as I completed the purchase. I tried to resist turning red, but your attention left me flustered. "Looks like you're all good to go. Would you like a receipt?"_

_"No, I do not believe in carrying useless trash in my pocket."_

_"Okay then," I responded. "Have a good day, Mr. Holmes. Tell John hello for me." I waited for you to leave, but you stayed right there, planted in front of the register, watching me. Other customers milled around, but I figured Evelyn or Carl could help them. I was too curious about why you stood in front of me still, glancing between me and the bouquet you had just purchased. It still sat between us on the counter._

_"Is something wrong, Mr. Holmes?"_

_"No," you responded, cocking an eyebrow and giving me a bewildered look. "Is something wrong with you?"_

_"No, not at all. It's just that you—"_

_"Then why have you not accepted my flowers?" You asked so matter-of-factly, like it was obvious that you had bought these for me._ I know now it was quite obvious behavior coming from you—why else would you ask if those flowers were my favorite while maintaining an air of disdain? You liked me.

_"What?" I asked. At this point, I was sure to be as red as a tomato, or maybe a ripe summer cherry._

_"The flowers, they are for you. A gift."_

_"Well, I—"_

_"Yesterday was my birthday, so you have to accept. Since you have not wished me a happy birthday, nor seemed to have gotten me a present, please accept these flowers as an amendment for your ignorance."_

_"I—" My voice gave out. From shock. Sherlock Holmes, the man who did not seem to bat an eye in my direction, gave me flowers. And I was expected to accept them since I forgot your birthday? Which you never told me when it was? This was the present you wanted? "Why?" I managed to choke out between all my inner questions._

_"Well you're a florist, so you obviously like flowers."_

_"No, why have you gotten me a gift?"_

_Your back stiffened a bit, and I saw a slip of your jaw. I made you hesitate, think. This was not an easy question for you, for once._

_"Florist, it is quite obvious your eyes follow me around the store whenever I am in here. For the last three months you have frequented Speedy's, the cafe next to my home, more than you ever have before. Additionally, your increased attention and care to your hair, face, and clothes have not been the result of an attempt to impress yourself, but rather me."_

_"Wait, back up, didn't you say tell me these flowers were for a_ generic _person? You called me generic, which really isn't much of a compliment in case you didn't know." I crossed my arms, suddenly unhappy._

_Again, you hesitated and blinked before responding. "Yes, I did call you generic. You hold no special features, no outstanding brains, no hidden talents. But you interest me in a way that science cannot explain. I would—" you glanced down nervously, almost losing confidence—"enjoy exploring this phenomenon and finding out why I find myself continually wanting to come into a florist's shop and speak with her. John says it's called a 'crush,' but I have never heard of such a thing. So let's go to a pub, garden, cemetery, or wherever people congregate when they are with someone that simultaneously makes their palms sweat and heart beat fast."_

_I stared at you, completely awestruck. I knew my mouth was hanging open, but it was hard to reign it in. You waited patiently for my response. You were patience, for once in your life._

_"That's really mean," I answered, once I gathered what you had just rambled about me. "No, I will not go out with you." Even I surprised myself. In this big, dramatic move you had made to gain my affection, you really just hurt my feelings. Generic? Not really the sentiment one wants from a potential mate. I was hurt, embarrassed. You really thought so little of me?_

_It was your turn to stare before you muttered something indiscernible, turned, and walked out the door. Before I could process what the hell just happened—you basically just admitted that you, Sherlock Holmes, liked me—a customer interrupted my thoughts._

_Approximately thirty minutes later, when the shop was all but empty, I again spotted a familiar curly head walking in. Below it, a graying blonde head. I took in a deep breath, preparing whatever traumatic conversation was coming next._

_"Noreen," John said, walking to meet me at the counter. "I am so sorry. I explained to him beforehand not to be rude, but he.." John glanced back at you. You were standing a couple steps behind, staring at John in an unhappy manner. "Well, to be completely honest Noreen, he is quite hopeless when it comes to being a kind, especially towards a woman he has trouble admitting he has developed certain feelings towards."_

_I watched you roll your eyes as he said that._

_John continued. "I understand if you don't want to go out with him, but listen to one more thing: he has absolutely not stopped talking about you in the last few weeks. Every day, it's a new deduction he has about you, some mention of your name–like your real name–brought up out of nowhere during conversation. He asks me if I need flowers, every day. Sherlock does not know what is happening, but I do: he has developed a crush. And I had to send him here today, with some help from our landlady, to ask you out. I apologize if you now need therapy, but if I spend another dollar on flowers for this man's sake, I will need to go to financial therapy."_

_Again, shock took over me. Did I ever experience any other emotion? Not since these two people, John and Sherlock, had been inserted into my life. I never imagined to be having these conversations with them, or anyone, but here we were. John mediating your.._ feelings _for me._ _It was surreal. It was weird._ And I would soon begin to learn everything felt like that with you. Surreal. Weird.

_"Is this true?" I asked, looking past John, to you. Your blue eyes caught mine, and my breath escaped me as our eyes met, a small surge of something bouncing between our gaze. You cleared your throat._

_"Yes."_

_I nodded in return, unsure of what to say next. Now was the worst time for you to choose not to speak. Well, supposedly you wanted a date, so I guessed that was the next step. "Then, I guess I will be going out with you Mr. Holmes. How does 5:00pm on Saturday sound?"_

_You nodded eagerly in agreement._

_"It's a date then," John said, clapping and rubbing his hands together in mastermind fashion._

As I stand in this same spot of my store, behind the counter, loading bridal shower bouquets into boxes for a woman to pick up this morning, I still remember the way you caught my eye, just before you left the shop that night.

John had gone out the door after saying goodnight, and you lingered a second longer. You faced me, again latching onto my eyes.

_"Call me Sherlock. Mr. Holmes is my brother."_

My heart had never fluttered so much, a name never sounded so good in my mouth.

_\---_

_Later that day, at the cemetery_

John was the solid foundation that brought us together that first night. John just was the solid foundation for everything, including you. Without him, you were hopeless, Sherlock. And that still remained fact as we stand in front of your grave: John is the stable friend for me now.

I have been speechless, clutching his arm. My wet eyes have doused his jacket for the entire forty five minutes we have been standing here. John has been whispering memories of you while cursing your name and horrible social manners. To be with him is to be with a part of you. Perhaps he feels the same about me. 

We cling to each other, understanding that you have left holes so deep inside of us, in different ways, different sizes.

"I miss him every day," John says, kneeling down to brush leaves off your gravestone.

"Me too," I mumble. 

"He would hate to see us showing emotion in front of his grave."

That made me chuckle a bit. "Yes. There is no doubt we would earn some comment about human emotion and the nonsense we let take us over."

John nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. "I would take any rude comment from him at this point, even about my height. Or intellect. Or names I pick for cases."

"You know what he would hate even more?" I said, a bright idea coming to my mind.

"Please share."

I started to sing the first line of "Happy Birthday," and John joined in on the tune. We sang, staring at the carving of your name in the headstone. Our voices cracked, our hearts rang, and we were belly laughing by the end. 

No, we did not have you anymore, but thank the heavens we had each other. We had a friend. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking around to read another chapter!
> 
> Sorry if the timeline was getting confusing (I was also getting lost myself). An important note I should add is the "one month after" and "two months after" are pretty loose. So it's not like every chapter begins on the same day of the month, but it is somewhere within that month (for example, this chapter started on January 5th because Sherlock's birthday is January 6th. But next chapter will begin on February 14th! Spoiler!!!!).
> 
> Okay I feel like I am doing a lot of explaining but honestly I just hate being like "what the fuck is this author doing," so I'm just trying to cover my ass and explain early on.
> 
> Anywho.
> 
> Thank you for reading!!! Every comment makes my fingers type a little faster, with a little more heart in it. While I may be writing this for myself, I LOVE writing this for others who are grasping at strings for more of Sherlock and the gang.
> 
> Also, any tips/recommendations/feedback is welcome. 
> 
> No promises that Chapter Three will come out as quick as this, but I will try!
> 
> Stay healthy, stay sane.
> 
> Cheers.


	3. Three Months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Violence.

_Three months after_  
  
  


February 14th, better known around parts of the world as Valentine's Day, had arrived. Because I am the co-owner a flower shop, I also participate in the cliché that this holiday is, and will always be, the busiest day of the year for a florist. I am not quite sure who informed the masses that flowers are a necessity for this particular celebration of love, but the people have listened and they want flowers. And a lot of them.

I can't complain, really. It is thanks to this day that my parents can afford a nice little vacation every year, and that I am able to spend some extra money on an online movie rental once in awhile.

But of course, this is a Valentine's Day without you. Nothing is worth that.

When I entered the shop this morning at 7:15am, approximately an hour and 45 minutes before opening, I was shocked by the amount of red and pink in the store. I had left Evelyn and Carl to decorate yesterday—it should not have been surprising the two lovebirds would go all out when left without me and my perpetual sadness to hold them back. Yes, three months and many trips to the therapist later, I was still in a constant state of sorrow. Although, sometimes, I was better. It was easier to ignore it at work, but at home I could not help but glance back at you in my memories. I had even started hanging out again with two friends of mine, Ellis and Parker. But amidst our sea of laughter in a pub, you were still there. Swirling in my thoughts, on my scarf, against my hand, all around me. 

But today, I would need to focus. The whole crew would be working—we needed all hands on deck—but I would let Evelyn, Carl, and Becca go early since they all had their own plans. Today was Evelyn and Carl's wedding anniversary—again, sick lovebirds—and Becca had a date with a woman she had been seeing for a couple weeks. Heck, I might even let Max out early if things started to slow down. On regular days of the year, we closed at 5:00pm, but tonight we would venture to leave our doors open until 8:00pm. Although by the end I would be exhausted, there were always a large number of unapologetic last minute customers that were willing to pay big bucks for the bottom of the barrel - and usually it was the same prospects.

The rest of the crew would be arriving in one hour, so I took my time strolling around the shop and being horrified by Evelyn and Carl's decor. The lifelike cupid statues and wall prints made me queasy—who likes a flying baby with an arrow?—but I felt better when I saw the big bouquets of red, pink, and white roses in the shapes of hearts. I had been working on them the day prior and even now my hands were still stained with their perfumed aroma.

Of course, like during all my free moments, my mind meandered to you. Your idea of a Valentine's Day celebration last year was as unexpected as the gnome by the cash register wearing boxers with hearts on them.

 _"Sherlock.." I gulped back the familiar rise of my just finished dinner and drink. "Is this a real human heart?" I had ventured to 221B after cleaning and locking up the shop with my parents. You had come into the shop earlier that day on the way back from a case_ (John later called it The Case of Broken Hearts and Heads) _, complaining that people's heart balloons were flying in your face. I explained, in the shop, that you couldn't be mad that people were in love, to which you replied "Oh yes I can. Especially when their love hits me in the face." At that moment, and like many others, I wanted to hit you in the face._

_Now, as I sat in front of the thing that used to pump blood through someone's chest, I finally understood why you had come into the shop earlier that day. You had not stuck around long, leaving soon after our conversation. But you had asked me one thing before you left: "Noreen, do you like hearts?"_

_Perhaps it was because today was Valentine's Day, or because I'm not used to a man bringing me a_ literal _heart as a present, I had responded, "Of course I do, Sherlock."_

 _"Perfect," you had replied, winking at me and gliding out the door. I remember feeling giddy because I assumed you had some sort of normal-ish gift planned. I knew you weren't_ normal _, but it was still early in our relationship yet and I still did not fully understand what this meant. But here, sitting at the table with an organ between us, I finally got it._

_You grabbed my attention out of my thoughts when you started to speak, and I remembered we were at the table, in 221B still. Unfortunately, the heart was still here._

_Noreen, I asked you today if you liked hearts and you said yes, so I got us a heart for tonight. To dissect." Your eyebrows furrowed together as you said this, and your mouth was in no playful smirk. You were serious, and appeared slightly worried that I would not appreciate your.._ kind _gesture._

 _"Sherlock, I thought you m-meant like, the popular heart drawing. Like the heart bouquets I make in my shop. Or any other heart you see associated with Valentine's Day!" My breath felt like it was thinning, puffing in and out of my chest. My stomach felt like it would soon explode and be all over this table. Just the sight of this_ thing _was making me nauseous._

_"You don't like it?" You asked, a frown beginning to form on your oh so perfect face. How could I disappoint you and those wide blue saucers staring into my soul?_

_"No, no.. I—" I paused momentarily, watching you, then glanced down at the thing. "I heart it," I finally said, reaching down and picking it up off the table slightly. It was quite moist, still. Hopefully not recently harvested._

_Your frown disappeared and that familiar smirk replaced it, except it was more than a Sherlock smirk—it was a smile. "Happy Valentine's Day, Noreen," you said, and my own heart skipped a beat when you grabbed my hand moments later._

_Of course, this was only to place a scalpel in my grip and guide me in making a small incision. But nonetheless, your touch felt sweet._

Were you testing me then? You could have easily deduced my disgust by my initial reaction, and the way I closed my eyes during the entire dissection and craned my head away. Perhaps you were testing me, seeing how far I would go to earn your affection. Would I do anything? Lie to make you feel better? Swallow back my feelings just to pardon yours?

Or maybe, you just really wanted to dissect a heart with me. Because that's what boyfriends do with their girlfriends, or at least what Sherlock Holmes does with his.

\---

_Later that day, February 14th_

"Max, feel free to go. I can close up," I offered. It was 7:50pm. The poor kid had been checking his phone all day. When I inquired who or what he was waiting on, his cheeks blushed a pink even our flowers couldn't match. "I just, I asked this girl out and.. She said yes." I was impressed by his boldness, not to mention he came to work today with a backpack full of nice clothes to change into after as if he knew she would say yes. Before Carl and Evelyn left, Carl had ironed Max's pants and shirt in the staff room, claiming a young gentleman was not to have wrinkles when out with a woman. Becca and I tried not to laugh considering Carl's entire face was made of wrinkles.

"Really?" Max responded to me now, wide eyed and hopeful. He was holding a broom in his hand, trying to sweep up remnants of a knocked over bouquet by someone's dog. This was an odd occurrence considering we had a strict no-pet policy, but there had been so many people in and out of the store all day that it was hard to tell the difference between tails and legs.

"Yes, go enjoy whatever you have planned. And don't forget your pants in the back." I took the broom from him as he ripped off his apron and sprinted to the back; I had never seen him move so fast in the shop. Before taking over his job of sweeping, I looked around the shop. With eight minutes left, there were only two people left browsing. A woman stood towards the register, a heart bouquet in hand, looking at the few Valentine's Day greeting cards we had at the front. The other customer, a man, looked at the little cupid figurines we had ordered from a small boutique in town. Well, it was more of a trade: they sold our flowers, we sold their creepy flying babies. Small businesses helping small businesses!

I could tell the lady was ready to check out, so I meandered over to be the good owner and customer service rep I was. As I rounded the corner, Max came out of the back. He was dressed in dark gray pants with a white button up shirt and a suit jacket. I had never seen him so dapper, so just to embarrass him, I whistled and raised my eyebrows. "Whoever this girl, she is one lucky lady!"

"No, I am a lucky man," he replied, putting on his backpack straps.

"I wouldn't say you're a man," I chuckled, eyeing his long hair and baby face. "But yes, lucky all the same. Now go have fun, and be safe!"

He laughed, hollering a thanks over his shoulder as he popped out the door.

"Is that your brother?" asked the woman as she handed me some bills.

"Basically. Ever feel like the people you work with are more like your family than your real family?"

"I work with my husband, so no, I don't know that feeling. But I imagine it can be quite odd to see coworkers more than your own kin."

"Sometimes it's better," I replied, putting her greeting card in a little bag and handing back her change. "Have a good night," I said. She dipped her head in acknowledgment and went out the door.

I checked my watch, 7:57pm. The man had moved from the figurines over to some succulents donated to us earlier this week. After deciding that he could ring the bell in front of the register if he needed me, I headed to a closet in the back to grab a mop.

I hated this closet. Too many times I had closed alone and always, on those nights I was by myself, a spider would come out to greet me. Usually it ended in me screaming and throwing things at it until it crawled back in whatever hole it came out of. Sometimes I would douse it in mop water, mercilessly watching it drown. I turned on the light and glanced around at the ceiling and all the walls. It was clear.

Leaning forward, I turned on a faucet that was close to the ground that we used to fill the mop bucket. This closet, along with being a home for spiders, was just nasty in general. The floor was always wet and grimy, and rusty pipes zig zagged across the back wall giving it the appearance of an unfinished room. I grabbed the soap from a corner and poured a cup of it in the bucket, watching as the bubbles rose.

Then, I felt the two heavy weights, which I now know were hands, land on my back and push me forward. I was falling. Down down down. I did not have enough time to put my hands out and stop my body from hitting the mop bucket, the faucet, and the metal pipes simultaneously. Thankfully, I had already been leaning down to make sure the water was hot enough, so the fall was not from too high up. Not like it was for you. But it was still a fall, and it still hurt when my body crashed.

The pipes and bucket clattered as my limbs and head banged against them. It was confusing, being pushed from behind when I did not even know someone was behind me to begin with. My head swam in pain and dizziness, and my face was pressed into the rusty mangle of tubes and mop water spilling over me. I attempted to crane my neck to see who the culprit was behind me.

And there he stood, the man who liked looking at the flying babies and succulents. At least I thought it was him - I might need to see him from the back. But in the front, I noticed his hair was dark, styled in an army type combover. Clean cut. He donned a dark button up shirt, a sports coat draped over his wide shoulders. He wore dark blue jeans and unscuffed brown boots. Had he not been some sort of weird attacker, I might think he was handsome. But then again, there was a crazy look in his eyes, a look that made bile start to collect at the bottom of my stomach. Or maybe that was just my concussion catching up to me.

Had this man been waiting for this moment all night? How long had he stood in the shop for? So many customers moved in and out throughout the day that it was hard to remember when exactly he had come in. He breathed heavily behind me as I moaned and tried to push myself up from the ground, but something hard pressed down on my back and shoved me down once more.

"I didn't say you could get up," came his voice from behind. It was deep, tight, controlling. Terrifying. I swallowed, pressing my eyes shut tight.

"Money is in the register," I breathed back to him, hoping he would take the cash and run. Sure, the amount we made today was mine and my entire family's livelihood for the next couple months, but I would rather live now. And I like to think my family would choose me over the money, as well.

Water was now pooling around me, getting in my mouth, as the faucet still ran. The drain below it was clogged—probably from dead smashed spiders—and the growing puddle was raised an inch or so around me. I lay on my stomach, water soaking my shirt and apron, my hair almost out of its ponytail after loosening from the fall. The water was hot, but so was my head. Everything felt heavy and hot. Especially as he climbed on top of me, dragging my hands around my back. I felt cloth. Rope? Something that held my hands together so I could not move them.

I tried to kick him from the back with my legs. But then, I became aware of ties around my feet as well. When had he done that? Then he was talking, or had he always been talking?

"I've been watching you, you know," he whispered into my ear after tightening the ties on my hands so tight they burned me. He flipped me over and I lay on my behind now, staring at his crazed eyes. I felt water tickling the edges of my ears. The faucet was still going. "You're so pretty. Especially when you make flowers."

I swallowed back the sickness that rocked my body. I wanted to puke. I didn't feel good. He had been watching me? My head hurt. He kept talking.

"If you think about it, it's awfully sweet that today was our first date. It's Valentine's Day after all," he said, voice dripping with ardor. He reached behind his back, tugging at something that looked to be in the band of his pants. Tears poured out of my eyes: this was it, I was going to die. A gun, he probably had a gun. He would kill me.

I thought of you. Were you scared like this? Were your last moments filled with tears instead of flashes of your loved ones like the books and movies always said it would be like?

"Please," I cried, or at least I think I did. Nothing was clear anymore, not when tears blinded me and the faucet was deafening. Black spots tugged at my eyes. Puke was rising up even higher in my throat. "What do you want?" I managed to choke out.

He cocked his head to the side, smiling at me. Licking his lips in desire, he spoke softly. "This."

Withdrawing his hand from behind his back, I shut my eyes hard and prayed. "Please," I begged, writhing around on the ground, trying with all my might to move. Survival mode was kicking in; I would not die right here, right now.

"Shhh, Noreen, look at me," he commanded. His voice was a whisper, but it was sharp. I opened my eyes, thinking that if I listened I might be spared. Instead of looking into the barrel of a gun like I expected, there was a rose. A single rose. "For you, sweetheart," he said, leaning down and sticking it between my lips. Before I could move to spit it out—oh how I relished in a moment of relief when I realized it wasn't a gun—he put slabs of duct tape over my mouth, forcing the flower to stay right where it was. He had neglected to remove the thorns on the stem, and they scratched my lips and mouth.

"I can't wait for our next date," he purred, getting on his knees and leaning close to my ear. "Now I know why Sherlock Holmes liked you so much. You are quite the eye candy. Not to mention really good with your _hands._ "

With that, he got up and walked out of the closet. I heard the familiar jingle of the door opening, and then there was silence.

Silence.

Sherlock.

How did he know you?

How did he know you cared about me?

I had never seen this man before. Ever. But he knew me? How? If you were here, you would be able to figure it out. Of course, if you were here, maybe I wouldn't be tied up and laying in dirty water with different parts of my head exploding in sharp pains. If you were here.. Now that is a dangerous game to play because you are, in fact, not here.

And the fucker didn't even have the decency to turn off the water before he left. It would be a high bill this month...

"Noreen! Noreen, can you hear me? Noreen, it's Greg. Open your eyes, it's okay, we're here to help you." I opened my eyes, which I didn't know I had closed, and saw many bodies moving around me. How much time had passed?

"Whaghash—" I tried to respond, but the tape still lay on my mouth. Greg pulled gently at the sides and I felt the little peach fuzz on my face sting against the adhesive.

"Almost there," he said to me, warm hands working gently but with haste. "Where are the paramedics?" he yelled to someone outside the closet. I heard yelling from somewhere, somewhere in the shop.

"Noreen," he said, turning to me and staring dead into my eyes. I tried to focus on his warm brown ones, but they swam in front of my vision. "You're going to be alright. The medics are here, you're going to hospital. I think you have a concussion, but you will be okay. I will be at the hospital soon. Your parents are being contacted and they will meet you there, okay?"

"Sure," I responded, rubbing my wrists where the tight cloths once were holding them together just moments ago. "Just make sure to turn all the lights off and lock up when you're done." As I finished my sentence and I watched Greg give me a humorous grin, the medics came in. More hands touched my neck and head, supporting every part of my body.

And then it went black.

\---

Waking up in a hospital is uncomfortable. The sheets are stiff and cold, and the lights are always on. I was grumpy when I woke up, specifically for all these reasons. Also, a dull ache irritated the front of my head.

I moaned, annoyed. But also tired. So, so tired. My eyes drooped half shut again, before snapping back up at the sound of my mother's voice. 

"Oh Noreen,"

"Mum," I said, grasping her hand as she came closer to my bed from the chair she sat in a couple feet away. Solace fell over me as I drank in the familiarity of her brown hair and square glasses.

"We're here," said my dad, joining us and laying a hand on my bed. He had been growing his hair out in the time since I had seen him, and I moved my hand up to run a finger through the thick waves I had inherited from him. "What happened, sweetie? Does something hurt? Do you need something? I'll go get a nurse—"

"Leo," my mum warned. "Just give her some space. Inspector Lestrade said he would take care of the interview—we're just here for support." Mum rolled her eyes at me, probably annoyed by my father's incessant worrying. She was quite the opposite, probably even took awhile to put on her shoes before coming to see me. Dad on the other hand, well I have no doubt he would have dashed out the front door in his knickers alone.

"You really didn't have to drive all the way here," I said, though I was very happy to see them. I felt safe. 

"Right," dad replied, shaking his head in disbelief at me. "Because when we get a call from Scotland Yard saying our daughter has been attacked and is lying unconscious and tied up in our flower shop, we just thought it would be better to stay home." 

"Well, we really did only come to check on the flower shop," teased mum. "The hospital just happened to be on the way." She winked at me, and the humor felt nice. Normal. Like none of what my dad just detailed even happened. 

"How long have I been here for?" I asked.

"Almost three hours," came a voice from the door. Greg had entered the room in that moment, standing against the frame. His eyebrows were furrowed in worry as he took in my state. "I'm sorry Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs, but can I have a moment alone with your daughter?"

"Of course," replied my dad. 

"Anything you want," I heard my mum mutter under breath, giving Greg an up and down look before winking at me and following my dad out the room. I shook my head in embarrassment as Greg blushed.

"Sorry about that," I said, grimacing and trying to sit up in bed.

"It's okay," he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped closer to my bed. I watched as he sat in one of the chairs my parents had vacated, scooting closer to where I lay. "Noreen," he said, sighing and looking down at his lap. "I'm sorry."

That was not what I expected. "Why, Greg? You couldn't have known this man would attack me like this—"

"No, not for that," he said, glimpsing up at me. "I'm sorry I haven't called more, since, you know."

I shook my head in response. There was no need to apologize. We all grieved differently, and that included alone or with others. Truth be told, Greg and I were not necessarily close prior to your.. _death_. He had been the one to take care of me during those first few days after, making sure I was always functioning enough to continue living. But since then, contact had been minimal. Until now.

"Well, I haven't really reached out either," I confessed. "It's okay, I'm sorry, too."

He nodded in acknowledgement. 

"Really, Greg, don't feel bad. I-we-we all grieve differently."

"Thanks, Noreen," he said, nodding and sitting up a little straighter. "You know, it hasn't been easy. But I've learned to, um, just think of the good times. Even when he said my name wrong."

That made me chuckle, a little. However, my heart also tore open again, exposing the wound that is your absence. I quickly changed the subject.

"So, what happened tonight?" I asked, averting eye contact.

"Well, that's what I came here to ask you. What do you remember?" Greg asked, leaning forward with his fingers clasped together. "And no pressure."

I recanted what I recalled from my memory, and he nodded along. When I finished, he took a deep breath. "Well, Noreen, now I have to tell you what I know."

"What do you mean?" I asked, suddenly feeling colder. I did not like the way Greg, again, rubbed his neck nervously. "Well, we got a tip about something suspicious happening tonight, and that's how we found you." 

"Did someone hear me scream or something? Because I don't think I screamed?" I waited for him to reply.

"No, not exactly," he said, taking a long blink as if he was to tell me something painful.

"Did they hear us struggle?"

"Erm, no."

"Then, how did you receive the tip?"

Again, he took another deep breath."Okay, long story short: our informant has been following some of Moriarty's workers, just to see what they're up to. Whoever was keeping track of this man last night, who was a previous employee of Moriarty's, saw him go into your shop. And when the man stayed in there past closing, whoever was watching your shop got worried. And when they saw the man leave, he looked.. suspicious."

"How the fuck does someone know—oh." Mycroft. Greg swallowed nervously. "Wait, who is this employee of Moriarty's and why is he following ME? What's his name? You know, this guy did bring up Sherlock before he left me laying in the closet. What do you think this has to do with Sherlock?"

Greg looked at me, offering only a kind grimace. "I don't know Noreen, perhaps it has everything to do with him. Our informant won't tell me much, even the man's name. But, they have assured me they are monitoring and taking care of the situation, so my people are off of it. I wish I could tell you more, really." When I took a second longer to respond because all I was thinking was WHAT THE FUCK, he started talking again. "I should.. go," Greg said. "You will be released in the morning and you're going to stay with your parents for a bit. Some people will be stationed outside their home in case the man tries to find you again, but we've been told he won't try to.. _visit_ you for awhile."

"Greg," I tried to turn on my polite voice, hoping I could get some more information out of him. It was hard for my brain to work though, still processing the fact that I was being stalked by the employee of a crime lord. "Answer me one thing before you leave. And yes, I know Mycroft was the informant, so you can cease from calling him that. But tell me: tonight, was Mycroft watching this man, or was he watching _me_? And he just happened to see this man of Moriarty's come into my shop?"

Greg let his shoulders droop, looking defeated for a moment before responding: "Get some sleep, Noreen. Call me if you need anything. Also, John knows what happened. He wants to see you, but I told him he'd have to wait until you're out of the hospital, so, yeah." He walked out the room before I could scold him for ignoring my question.  
  
\---

_The next day_  
  


After being settled in at my parents in Shenley, my mind drifted back to the Mycroft problem. And yes, this was a problem, indeed.

He had been watching me when I specifically told him to leave me alone. This was infuriating since this genius man did not seem to understand boundaries, nor how to listen. Even if one of his stupid workers had been on the camera instead of himself, it was the fact that I was monitored constantly that pissed me off. There was no privacy or respect.

On the other hand, I was safe, and perhaps alive, because of him.

But still, it was fucking annoying.

In a burst of anger that I intended to not let get the best of me, I grabbed my phone. There were several messages and calls from Carl, Evelyn, Becca, John, Mrs. Hudson, and even Max. None from him. That made me angrier. He couldn't just save my life and not say anything. I opened my messages and started a new text thread, realizing I had never before messaged him.

_Thank you._

I stopped myself from typing anything that would be rude since he did just rescue me (although, I never asked him to). Clicking send, I scrolled mindlessly through social media. There was nothing about my attack which I was thankful for, but also confused about. Probably another Mycroft thing - paid off people to keep their mouth shut since the guy in trouble had something to do with Moriarty. It was nice, though, to not have the whole of London know I was attacked.

But again, annoying. Mycroft's hands were always in everything.

Just before locking my screen so I could take a nap since, minutes prior, I had swallowed some much needed sleep-inducing pain meds, my phone buzzed.

_No thank you necessary for doing my job. MH_

I rolled my eyes, smiling in disbelief at how utterly high and mighty he could be. All a person has to say is "you are welcome."

Then my phone buzzed again.

_However, you are welcome. MH_

Looks like he does have some manners after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took me longer to get out than expected. This week was a doozy! Hope you all are hanging in there, mentally and physically.
> 
> My state has put us in another lockdown, and there is a lot of pushback on it. Many businesses in our area have already shut down, and many more probably will now. On the other hand, my cousin is a nurse in a big hospital in the city and he said it is horrible what they are seeing. People come in every day, and many people are dying, or having a very harsh recovery. Truth be told, there is no right answer. Still, mask up! Care for each other and yourself! Protect your health! And shop local.
> 
> I hope this chapter took you all out of the world for a moment, and provided some sort of momentary relief. But, it is important we also live in the world and do our best to educate ourselves and others, be aware, and work hard to make this a better place, every day. 
> 
> Still, we deserve moments during the day where we can kick back and read some Sherlock.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed this chapter! I am REALLY looking forward to writing the next one ;)


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Drugs. And language (but you all should know by now that will be a warning in every chapter, so this is the last time I'm listing it).

_Four months after_

When I stirred this morning, there was blissful moment where I forgot about everything: you, my attacker and apparent stalker, and the fact that today, March 17th, was my 30th birthday. 

Then, as my mind gained consciousness and I heard the chirps of the birds outside my window, reality came crashing down. 

I was thirty, yippee. 

I did not allow myself to sulk in my warm covers. Instead, I jumped up and pranced to the kitchen to start up a much needed pot of coffee. My schedule was full today, and there was no time to dwell on the sadness of your absence. This is something my dear therapist, Dr. Michelle Davies, had been drilling into me for many weeks now. I will not lie, talking to her was helpful - thank you, Mycroft, for being financially stable and generous enough to loan her out to me for this long _._ It felt good to have a space and person where I could spit out all my thoughts and feelings, although I rarely did. Still, the fact that she wanted to listen to me drawl on about you was a nice change. After four months of mourning, I was sure people were tired of listening and comforting me. But she was getting paid to be there, so I accepted the company happily.

Today, though, Dr. Davies had encouraged me to enjoy myself. This was becoming easier, and really, thoughts of you were more numb than before. You ran through my mind continuously still, but it no longer felt like a gash was bleeding freely in my chest. Instead, there were stitches there now, holding it together. But, the ache still existed.

I checked my phone, smiling as messages from my family popped on screen. It had been nice to visit them last month, where I stayed cooped up with my parents and was gifted with frequent visits from my sister, brother-in-law, and niece. My parent's home in Shenley was not my childhood home—that was in Camberwell, south London—and they had only lived in Shenley for a little under a year now. Since they moved, I had not visited too often. However, though I did not grow up in that home, my parents still had the same furniture and decorations. It proved a close enough substitute.

My parents' move was the result of feeling like they were missing out on their grandchild's growing up. My younger sister, Charlotte, had moved out to Shenley with her husband, Isaac, two years ago when she was pregnant with my niece, Ava. Funny enough, my sister was pregnant AGAIN at this moment. Isaac, my _beloved_ brother-in-law (this is sarcastic, by the way: I really hate my brother-in-law), works at the Arsenal Training Grounds. He also is a cheater and avid gambler, but more on that later. 

Barney's Bouquets, thankfully, did not need to be fixed physically in any kind of way as a result of the altercation with my attacker. Nonetheless, Mum made the forty minute drive into central London every day while my dad stayed with me, craning and bending to cater my every need.

_"I'm so happy you're home, sweetheart. I know the way you got here wasn't ideal, but I miss my little girl."_

He repeated this sentiment to me often throughout the week I stayed with them. My father, he truly was one of a kind. I inherited many things from him, although probably not his tender love and care for others. My sarcasm, dry humor, and inability to be too forward with my love towards friends and family was a direct trait of my mother. I always believed my parents to be mismatched: my dad was gentle and full of bear hugs—much like my grandpa—and my mom was a fiery ball of eye rolls and side hugs—much like you.

As I watched my father care for me over that week, I felt a peace that had been absent since November. Even my mom's constant groaning and moaning about an extra mouth to feed was so welcoming and familiar; I knew deep down that she, too, was happy I came home. There was just no other way for her to show it. 

After pouring a much needed strong cup of joe from my coffeemaker, I waltzed into the bathroom and stared at myself in the smudged mirror above the sink. 

Thirty years old. 

Freckles were dribbled across my nose, a tone darker than my already tanned skin. I had defused my hair last night after the shower, and because of this, my curly waves were more manageable than usual. It was cold in the flat, making my nipples stand out under my tie dye cotton t-shirt. I slipped off my shirt and inspected my aging body in the mirror. Really, I looked no different than yesterday. My tummy still tumbled a bit over my pajama shorts, and my arms, when I flexed them, looked toned from the few bit of weights I had gotten into working out with recently.

I had been very active at one time, ages ago. Throughout my youth I played basketball and football, but then I became an adult and suddenly exercising wasn't all that fun anymore because, well, you have no friends to do it with and no one brings you snacks after. I really slacked in my twenties, choosing shots of tequila over circuits around the track. 

Now, thanks to Dr. Davies, I was determined to get back to doing something active to clear my brain some more. Tomorrow, I would look for some junior women's football leagues in the area. Maybe Parker knew of some. Getting out of the house and around some women my age would be good for me. Sports are fun, and I need fun.

My phone buzzed and it distracted me from inspecting my appearance further. 

_Many birthday wishes to you, Noreen. JW_

I frowned. Today, I was going to Mrs. Hudson's for breakfast. We invited John, but he declined. After the visit to the cemetery, I had not seen much of him—any of him, really. Sure, he had called to check in when I was attacked last month, but beyond that, it seems he was becoming more and more detached. Even at the cemetery, he had not informed me that he was moving out of 221B. John, Dr. Davies might say, was just grieving differently. Just as I grieved my own way, and Mrs. Hudson grieved her own way, and even Mycroft grieved in his own way - John grieved, too. Alone.

I knew it was killing Mrs. Hudson to not speak to him. I was at fault here as well - it was becoming easier to not be around John as months went on. Although the cemetery had shown me we needed to be around each other, it did not necessarily mean we wanted to. Every memory we shared was a memory with you, and it was exhausting to at all pretend you were not the very thing that brought us together. Sure, we might rekindle our friendship in the future, but it needed to be over something that was not about you.

We all needed time on our own. At least that's what I told myself in this moment. Still, it was nice of him to text.

I replied with a simple _"Thank you. Hope all is well,"_ and tried to leave my worried thoughts of John at the bathroom mirror while I changed in my bedroom.

\---

My breath hitched as I eyed the familiar few steps up to the door of 221. The brass door knocker was no longer to the side, a common signature of John's. I knocked politely, distracting myself by watching patrons enter and exit the Speedy's next door. 

"Oh Noreen, you don't need to knock," greeted Mrs. Hudson, opening up the door, and her arms, to welcome me. "Happy birthday!" She engulfed me with a hug, to which I happily returned, and pulled me inside. I spotted your staircase on the left of the foyer, and I made an effort not to glance up at it and hope I would see you ascending in a flurry of coats and nicotine patches. I had not been back to 221B in sometime, which spoke to the horrible neglect I had been giving Mrs. Hudson, but also served as a reminder of just how painful it was to be here.

Mrs. Hudson released my form, but I grabbed her hand once more before she completely pulled away. It was a surprising move by me, I will admit, but I did not know how to articulate the pleasure I felt in seeing her again. "Thank you again for doing this, you really did not have to. But seriously, I appreciate it."

"Of course, my dear," she responded, leading me into her flat. The smell of sweet cinnamon came over my senses, and the tension I did not know I was holding in my shoulders was released. "It's been lonely, Noreen. I won't lie. John moved out and, well, you know." She cut herself off as her voice wavered a bit. 

"I know," I replied, my voice a hoarse whisper. Why had I agreed to this breakfast again? Oh right, because I adored this woman and she adored me. Her presence brought me pleasure. But also pain. Still, she made me breakfast, I couldn't complain.

Mrs. Hudson set down a steaming plate of cinnamon rolls in front of me at the table I sat at, and then a plethora of eggs, sausages, and toast followed. "Eat up," she said. Seconds later, a cup of tea was thrust into my hands and she took her place across from me.

The morning was spent pleasantly together. We talked about everything under the sun (or should I say, under the cold, gray, London sky), including you - I was proud of myself for not crying when the topic was inexplicably brought up.

I noted that Mrs. Hudson really was lonely. She missed you, John, myself, and others. Without you, Sherlock, the hub of people and conversation has dispersed from 221—she missed the comings and goings of your wacky every day life. 

I promised I would call her more and reach out, especially if no one else was (I refrained from adding on this last part, though. I did not want to make her feel worse about her seclusion). 

"I should let you go, I'm sure you have other plans today," she cooed as I finished my tea and breakfast. "But, I have a gift for you first." She pulled a small package from behind a door in the kitchen. It was wrapped in deep, forest green paper. My heart almost gave out: she remembered my favorite color.

"Open it," she urged, pushing it into my lap.

"Mrs. Hudson, you really didn't have to get me anything," I pleaded, peeling back the corners. It was a small package, about the size of a letter. When I tore through the initial green wrapping, I was met with a small padded mailer—shaped like an envelope, but made out of paper like cardboard. I caught Mrs. Hudson's eye, raising an eyebrow in confusion. 

Nodding her head, she encouraged me to continue opening it. 

I undid the cohesive at the top, and when I reached inside to pull out a small, clear, plastic bag, I almost dropped it in shock.

The woman gifted me weed for god's sake.

"Mrs. Hudson," I gasped. "How do you—"

"My dead husband, dear. As you may remember, he held quite a position of power in the world of drugs. Let's just say, I still have connections." I nodded in approval, though still slightly scandalized.

"And do not worry," she continued with a smile, "I have been using this stuff myself. For my bad hip." She patted her side. "Of course, I tried not to use it around Sherlock when he was here, just in case it triggered, you know.." 

"Of course," I muttered back, still completely flabbergasted as I rolled the green fluff around in my hands. There was a lot. How long has she been stashing this stuff for?

"It's seven grams, by the way. Should last you awhile. I figured you could use it to relax. I think you deserve to, Noreen." She offered a pitied look, obviously referring to the attack in the flower shop. And you. 

"Mrs. Hudson.. wow. I am truly speechless. Thank you!" Seven grams?! It had been over seven years since the last time I smoked this stuff. 

"Oh just wait until you try it - you won't know what hit you. Oh, and do you know how to roll your own?" She asked, motioning to the thin sheets fir joints she included. 

"I believe so, but it's been awhile," I confessed, blinking wildly at her. This woman, she had quite the surprises up her sleeve.

"Well if you have trouble, I'm sure you can just bake it into something. That's my favorite way!" I nodded, then glanced at the cinnamon rolls on the table. "Did you..?"

She giggled heartily. "Of course not, dear." 

A few minutes later, we exchanged pleasantries at the door while I still wrangled in my obvious astonishment. Before stepping outside, I promised to phone soon. 

"I will hold you to that, Noreen." She pulled me in for a hug, then whispered in my ear: "If a cop stops you, don't let him go through your pockets. Kiss him if you must for a distraction, or let your cleavage show a little like I used to. I don't want to have to break you out of the slammer, dear. And visits in prison just wouldn't be the same."

A smile broke across my face and I breathed in one more smell of her comforting lavender detergent before pulling away and stepping down the steps. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you, again. This has been the best start to my birthday."

"And make sure you have a good ending too," she replied, eyeing my pocket where her gift laid light like a feather. 

\---

After the breakfast, I video chatted with my family in my flat. Ava sang me "Happy Birthday" and I blew out one candle on a cupcake my sister had delivered to my doorstep. After eating lunch, I took an unexpected three hour nap—no, the weed was not a factor in my tiredness, it was the socializing that wore me out—and I rushed to slip on my night-out-for-my-birthday outfit. It was 4:30pm already and I would be meeting Ellis and Parker in an hour. 

When I saw the pair two weeks ago, they informed me against my will that they were taking me out for my birthday, and I could not refuse. Of course, these two were my best friends and there was no way I could decline their invitation, even if it was to a fish fry. Another stipulation they enforced upon me was that I had to look, in Parker's words, like a "sexy bitch". At the time I had just laughed and shook my head, but now I found myself sporting some pants that I knew made my ass bounce, complete with a blouse and distressed jean jacket that I never bothered to wear. 

Not that I was trying to look hot, although I did look hot, but it was my birthday, gosh damnit. A woman could look handsome. 

Not to mention I liked to think that if you saw how I was dressed tonight, your eyes would not leave my form.

I even wore heels, a rarity. I called a cab and left my house at 5:15pm, grabbing a banana and some crackers to eat on the drive. Although I should probably eat something more, I figured we would order some chips for the table to munch on. One chip for every two pints sounded like the right portions.

Upon arriving to the pub, Simon's, I spotted my two knuckleheads standing outside and awaiting my arrival. Parker's newly dyed blonde hair shone brighter than the neon lights of the bar sign, and she looked like her usual self: a model out of some high end fashion catalog. But beyond her picture perfect exterior lay the mind of a genius computer programmer. The first class she attended at Uni, the professor told her she was in the wrong room. Now she worked a job that professor could only dream of holding.

Ellis, on the other hand, was shadowed in his usual shades of denim and neutrals, his hair still the same clean cut close shave as it was in primary school. He sold cars during the days and helped record music for "emerging artists" by night. In both instances he proved to be a good salesman—he earned grand amounts of commissions on sports cars, and helped young dreamers spend their free moments believing they would be the next pop sensation. Whether or not that actually happened.. well, he got paid either way.

"Greetings, old woman. You need some help getting out of the cab?" hollered Ellis as I exited the cab. I flipped him the bird as I tripped out the door in a fit of giggles.

Already, this was going to be a great night.

"Happy birthday," chimed Parker as she pulled me in for a hug. "You definitely pass the sexy test we put you up to," she said, scanning her eyes over me.

"Happy birthday, Nore," remarked Ellis, bear hugging me and messing up my hair on purpose. "You really don't look that much older than us." 

"Only a couple months and we'll be celebrating both of you getting over the hump," I threatened.

"Oh, kill me," drawled Parker as she led the way into the pub.

This place was not where you would find twenty year olds on a Saturday night, and therefore we could actually hear ourselves think since music was not blowing out our eardrums. Plus, the smell of sweat was imperceptible here. However, it was still packed. We were surprised to find a couple free seats by the live band that played. Ellis dashed off to grab the drinks.

Parker turned towards me smiling. "And to think it was many trips around the sun ago that we stayed up all night on your birthday making up dances to songs we didn't know the words to. Now look at us, two grown women who are getting almost too old to shake it."

"I'm sure we can both still do those dances if the right songs get played," I chuckled.

"Don't tempt me—I might have to ask the band if they know some Spice Girls."

"Why my parents let us listen to that is beyond me. Did we really think we could bump it like them?"

"We wished we could." 

We laughed together, like we had many times before. It was nice to be back with my best friend, and I felt dragged back to more wholesome and happy days before adulthood and all it's woes took hold. I noticed Ellis still waiting on our drinks, and I took the moment to interrogate my dear friend.

"How are you two?" I asked. 

"Shh," Parker answered swiftly, and I turned my head to see Ellis making his way to us. He must have just gotten our drinks. "I'll tell you later," she whispered to me out the side of her mouth.

"What are you ladies talking about?" Ellis asked, smirking between us as he set our full glasses down.

Oh yeah - Ellis and Parker sleep together. A lot. And they have since high school. For the last fifteen years their relationship has ranged from going to dances together, to not talking to each other after graduation, to seriously considering marriage at 23, to thinking Parker was pregnant with Ellis' child at 26, and back to casual hook ups and strictly being friends with benefits. They stopped their open relationship for awhile last year while Ellis "dated" another woman, but it was because of you that they began hitting the bed together, again.

Parker hid her blush at his question and decided to jump in and start ranting about her coworkers. Meanwhile, a memory tugged at my brain from last year's birthday.

_We arrived at The Old Queen's Head exactly at 7:00pm._

_"You ready?" I asked you, eyeing your straight backed form next to me in the cab._

_Raising your eyebrows in mock excitement, you claimed, in an all too chipper voice, "Of course, dear!"_

_"You know, it's my birthday," I nagged. "The least you could do is act genuinely excited to meet my friends."_

_"That would not be genuine if I am acting." I glared at you in response. "Oh, I'm sorry," you droned on. "You're right - spending time with average brained people shall be the highlight of my whole year."_

_"I'm average and you spend time with me," I warned before stepping out of the taxi and holding open the door for you to follow._

_"You're different," I heard you mumble behind me. Whether or not you intended for me to hear it, I smiled anyways. Yes, for some odd reason, I was_ different _to Sherlock Holmes, different enough that I captured your attention in all my averageness and managed to maintain it._

_"What was that? I didn't catch what you just said," I lied, smirking up at you while we matched our pace up to the pub door._

_"I said yes, unfortunately I do spend time with you. And I sacrifice losing brain cells every time."_

_"Arse," I muttered, elbowing you._

_Upon entering, I spotted Parker's highlighted pixie cut just beyond my reach. I marched up to her and tapped her on the shoulder._

_"Noreen!" she yelled over the sound of music and glasses clinking, turning around to hug me. "Good to see you! I'm so happy we could get together." Her eyes ran over you momentarily before whispering in my ear. "Wow, what a hunk."_

_"Parker, this is my boyfriend, Sherlock," I said, stepping back to let you two meet._

_"Pleased to meet you," said Parker, sticking out her hand to yours. You put forward your hand in response to her, then I saw the familiar gathering of your eyebrows and raising of the left corner of your mouth - the start of a deduction. Here we go._

_"Really?" you inquired. "Does shaking the hand of a complete stranger actually bring pleasure to you?"_

_Okay, that was not what I expected. Still, it was a very Sherlock response._

_Your handshake ended with her and Parker side eyed you for a moment before turning to me. "He's odd, I like him." And with that, she turned and motioned for us to follow her to the bar._

_I turned around and offered you a thumbs up, impressed by how well you resisted the urge to inform her of her divorced parents and personal addiction to fake tanning. I earned a wink back from you and my heart soared._

_After grabbing our drinks, I asked Parker where Ellis was._

_"How am I supposed to know?" she answered, lips in a tight purse as she wiped the condensation off her glass. "Probably piss drunk and making heart eyes at all the women in here."_

_Okay, sensitive topic. Moving on._

_I felt an arm place itself around my shoulder. "Happy birthday, Nore," Ellis said with a drunken smile. I could smell the alcohol on his breath and knew he had arrived hours prior - Parker had been right._

_"Thank you, Ellis," I said. "Meet my boyfriend, Sherlock." I motioned to you. Upon looking at you, I saw a dissipating look of.._ jealousy _?_ _You looked up and down Ellis, scrutinizing his arm around me for a moment with an upturned nose and tight jaw. Then you took note of Parker and the way she rolled her eyes at Ellis' arrival—you understood the dynamic now, and the growing green monster disappeared completely from your demeanor._

_"So you're the consulting defective?" Ellis slurred at you. "I like your coat."_

_"Close, consoling directive is what you mean," you teased. I nodded and bit back my laughter until I noticed, again, your eyebrows furrowed and your mouth raised into a knowing smirk before replying to him. I had a bad feeling about this one._

_"And you must be the unrequited lover of Miss Parker, here." Ellis' smile instantly dissolved and Parker choked on her drink._

_Fuck. I had expected you to bring up the that Ellis had recently returned from a trip to Spain, or that he wore women's deodorant because it irritated his pits less. But no, you chose to bring up the one off limits topic._ _Normally, Parker and Ellis would not have minded if their relationship was brought to the surface, but I just remembered that Ellis had accompanied his new lady friend on that trip to Spain. Parker, although she hated to admit it, was quite envious of the whole thing. And it was evident from our conversation moments earlier that she was still furious with him._

_"Something like that," Ellis mumbled in response, clearing his throat and glancing away from everyone in our circle to look out at the bar distractedly._

_"No, we're not lovers," corrected Parker, face tinging pink as she glared over at Ellis._

_"Then why have you not stopped looking for him since we walked in?" you asked her,_ almost _innocently. I shook my head. This was not going to be good._

_"I—"_

_"Ellis, you refrained from bringing your new woman here. Was it because you knew Miss Parker would be in attendance? And you shaved tonight. Tsk tsk. Parker does prefer her partners to be clean shaven, and your five o' clock shadow was beginning to turn grungy. Also, you are quite pissed - a common tactic to reduce the levels of anxiety and stress you felt about seeing Parker since returning to your trip from, hmm, Spain was it? With that new lady I just mentioned? Which you knew that Parker was angry about, seeing as her white knuckles have not been unclenched around her drink since first laying eyes on you. Miss Parker, though, would never admit this to your face. Years of her family's lacing communication skills seems to have wore off on her. Now correct me if I'm wrong, which I I know I won't be, but your relationship with each other has consisted of casual sex for many years, but never a serious commitment. However, it is interesting, Ellis, that you chose to finally commit to a woman, though obviously not for very much longer since you cannot refrain from eyeing what lies beneath Miss Parker's low cut shirt and orange tan."_

_We were all silent. I dared to look at Parker, afraid I would find her in a whirl of fury, but instead she was staring in awe at you with her jaw dropped. When I peeked at Ellis, he was in the same state. You, on the other hand, looked so proud of yourself, but your smile faltered a little when you noticed me shaking my head in warning._ STOP, _I mouthed, worried this would cause a yelling match between the two broken lovers._

_"What?" you asked, eyes clouding in concern for my disapproval._

_"Sherlock." I began to scold you, pulling your collar down so you were at my eye level._

_"What the fuck," whispered Ellis, interrupting my conversation with you. We both turned to gauge his reaction. His eyes were as big as two moons. Then a drunken, goofy smile erupted across his face. "This guy's a wizard." He leapt to pat you on the back. "I approve of him, Noreen. He's amazing. A serious fucking mind reader! Okay, now keep going, mate - tell us more about our unrequited love, please." Parker, where I expected her to be annoyed with Ellis, nodded in agreement._

_"If I must," you smirked in response, basking in the attention of my two curious friends. Before you continued though, your hand found mine underneath the table and squeezed. I looked up at you, realizing you would not continue deducing without my blessing._

_"Go on," I conceded. "These two getting together might be the best birthday present I receive."_

Let's just say Ellis broke up with his new girlfriend that night. I was sad now though—you were not here with me this year to mend whatever relationship struggles they were experiencing currently. Nor to hold my hand under the table. 

Still, I enjoyed the night with them. And I imagined you would have, too.

\---

Climbing into the cab at an early hour of 8:30pm, I was thankful I did not go too crazy with drinks. For the last month, my senses had been heightened after, you know, being attacked in my own bloody shop. Walking alone at night was no longer a normal occurrence for me, but something that I began to dread as the night would fall. Instead, I made conscious decisions to spend less at the pub and spend more to get home safely. For my peace of mind, it worked. I knew that Mycroft still had people watching my flat, and my every move, but I knew that my attacker was probably watching me, too. 

The thought made my skin crawl as I glanced behind me when I reached my building's door after being dropped off. I darted up the stairs, thankful that every corner and hallway was well lit here. As I came upon my door, my stomach dropped for a moment.

A single, slim package awaited on doorstep, atop the mat I had laid out that stated, "It's always happy hour here!" I looked from side to side at the handful of my neighbor's doors, but none had a package laying in front of them. Normally, mailed packages were left at the front desk for us to pick up. This one was hand delivered.

My hand shook as I bent to pick it up, the little, pristine, white box. Looking over my shoulders one more time to spot any unsuspecting shadows in the corner, I unlocked the door and walked into my flat, locking it again quickly behind me. 

The package made me sick, really. I threw it onto my couch, not wanting to touch it too much. What if it was from Moriarty's man? I closed my eyes, still leaning against my front door, and took a deep breath. I really hope my spare key was never found. I really hope a psychopath murderer never picked it up. 

I entertained the idea of calling Greg, asking him to take some fingerprints before I opened up the box. What if it was a small bomb? Well, I guess my attacker could have killed me in the flower shop when he had a chance, so I doubt he would kill me now, here, without him watching to enjoy it. 

He wasn't here, right? Again, my spare was never found...

I weaved in and out of the four rooms of my small flat: the living room, the kitchen, my bedroom, and the bathroom. Nothing seemed out of place, and no creepy men stood around any corners.

"Oh just open it you scaredy cat," I said aloud to myself. "You are thirty years old for Christ's sake, don't be such a wuss." I was definitely giving myself a pep talk, but only because it worked. Taking a deep breath, I marched over to the couch where I had thrown the package and grabbed the little white box. I guess it wasn't little, really, but it was thin and light.

I lifted the top off and gasped simultaneously with shock, joy, and laughter. 

It was a young you. Little Sherlock. Your curls were wild, and your eyes were wide and blue. You stood over a cake with seven candles in it, your mouth open wide like you were taking in a big breath to blow them out. 

Tears gathered at my eyes, and I brought picture close to my chest as I collapsed on the couch behind me. My love. You looked so happy to be turning seven. You just looked so _you_. 

I dared to look at the photo again, studying your baby face, your coils that were so wild like mine, and the dark blue jumper that looked big and worn, like a hand-me-down from Mycroft. I drank in this image of you, so young and innocent and _alive._

Looking in the box, there was no note attached. I turned the photo over to see if it was dated. Instead, what met my eye was a very _very_ short note.

_Hoping you experienced a joy like this today. MH_

More tears. More tears because who the hell drops off a picture of their dead brother at their dead brother's girlfriend's flat? Someone who misses you. Someone who was looking at photos of you today and thought of me for a moment. Someone who knew I would enjoy this. In all honesty, this was the best gift I received all day (sorry Mrs. Hudson - your drugs were a close second).

I was not ashamed to spend the next few hours continually crying as memories of you racked my brain. They were happy memories, but still, the thought of you was strong and raw. I carried the picture with me into the kitchen as I raided my fridge for something to eat, and I carried it back into the living room with me as I put the TV on reruns of Doc Martin. Oh, and I brought with me a bottle of wine. 

That's where I stayed: on the couch, with the picture of you and a bottle of wine. I wanted so badly to spend my birthday with you, and this picture seemed to be the closest I could get to that. Eventually, as the clock turned to the hour of 1:00am and my wine bottle emptied, I decided to retire. My birthday was over. 

Yet, there still remained something to do before I could return to the sweet solace of forgetfulness and dreams.

It was easier, this time, to pull out my phone and type it out to him. Perhaps because it was later than I ever stayed up in my last ten years, and my sleepiness was masking any anxiety in my decisions, just like you had said it did. Or maybe, I just wanted to thank him for everything he had done for me in the last four months since you: paying for a therapist, saving my life, giving me a gift. Either way, I embraced this fearlessness I experienced in texting Mycroft Holmes and just went for it.

_Thank you, again._

I clicked send. Seconds later, a response.

_You are welcome, again. MH_

I wanted to ask why Mycroft Holmes, who exceeded my elderly age of thirty by six or seven years, was awake at such an hour. But maybe he, too, was hugging the picture of someone he loved—trying to grasp at every string of their memories together before his dear brother disappeared from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies: this chapter was more of a filler. I was hoping to introduce our beloved main character, Noreen, a little bit more. I realize I have many flaws as a writer, and one of them is that I tend to glaze over the characters I create. Like, I know everything about her in my head, but I forget to put that on paper. 
> 
> Please let me know if there are any other details you would like to know about her, or anything you feel is missing? I plan to fill information in, but kind feedback is welcome.
> 
> Bonus apology: I PROMISE Mycroft will be more present in the next chapter, lol. I tagged this story as a slow burn for a reason ;) Bear with me, and you will not be sorry. We still have 26 more chapters to go! 
> 
> Feel the burn, embrace the burn, taste the burn.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Y'all are the best.
> 
> Cheers!


	5. Five Months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of suicide. Also, Mycroft is frustrating.

_Five months after_

The Lord has (apparently) risen today. And for that reason I also rise early, slip on an acceptable Easter Sunday outfit, and drive the 45 minutes or so out to my parents' house. Not with my car, which is nonexistent, but with Evelyn and Carl's that they lend me on occasion. Today they will not venture outside the city, so I am free to take it as I have many times before.

Leaving London is like riding a wave into shore. First, I must navigate the hustle and bustle of the city—cabs stopping, pedestrians walking, and traffic lights that never seem to be green when I approach. Bricks and glass buildings pepper my peripheral vision as I drive through the streets, meandering round abouts and tight turns. Soon, though, I am on the motor way and speeding faster past the city, buildings growing shorter and plumper. Eventually, I hit the stretch of road with townhouses and flats lining the side. Children walk with their parents. A group of teenagers carry a soccer ball - two of them hold hands while the others run ahead. A woman sits on the curb, a basket filled with all her livelihood next to her. A cat naps on her lap, and a man sidesteps her in his suit and tie, hurrying to get somewhere.

Soon after, buildings become sparse and there are few small towns I drive through, winding around trees and curves. Brown and green farmland are on my right, neighborhoods on my left. There are few cars on this by-pass, and I am thankful for the space I feel out here, away from London and it's cramped everything. Entering Shenley, I note that the car salesman has even taken the day off. My mind jumps to Ellis—and Parker—if they are spending this morning together tangled in sheets and the questions of their relationship.

When I pull up to the house, the front door opens and Ava toddles out, my mum behind her. Her black hair bobs up and down on her head as she giggles and yells to me: "Noween! Noween! Noween!"

I walk up the stone path where she waits for me, arms up and asking to be held. "Hello, sweet girl," I greet, bouncing her in my hold. She wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes; I don't even care that I can barely breathe.

"Play me? Papa catch ball!" Her mouth is full of new words and phrases - I know from recent Facetime conversations that she is working to expand her vocabulary, though a two year old can only manage so much.

"Of course, Ava girl, just let me say hi to everyone real quick."

I had been so consumed by the cuteness of my niece that I negated acknowledging my mother. She had been watching us interact, her arms crossed and an emotionless smirk. Her eyes are far off, like she is in another world.

"Hi, mum," I say, stepping in the warmth of their home. She awakes from her zoning out and pats me gently on the shoulder, shutting the door behind me.

"Nice of you to finally show up," she remarks, leading me into the dining room and kitchen where everyone else is in a frenzy of cooking and chatting. I wonder what has already triggered my mother's feistiness today. I note I am five minutes early than what I told them yesterday, so it must be something, or someone, in this room besides me.

"Noreen!" everyone says at once as I walk in: it is my sister, her husband, and my dad. The crowd is smaller than usual - typically my aunts, uncles, and cousins mill around. But, this year, my family insisted we do it a bit smaller. When I inquired about this change, my dad stuttered and said something about making time just for immediate family. However, he is a horrible liar and I know it is because of me that this shindig is tinier. Well, it is because of you, really.

I had not seen much of my extended family since losing you, and since the attack, I figured my parents were trying to give me as much space as possible, which I did not mind in the slightest.

My sister waddles over to hug me, and her belly sits between us. "Hi, Char," I say, and then lean down to her belly. "And hi little baby that I already love so much!" I give her plump belly a small kiss for good measure.

"Sis, you wouldn't believe how many people want to do that in the supermarket. I have to swat them away like flies," she says, rubbing the underside of her mound.

"One more month and they'll be looking at the cute little baby instead," cuts in Isaac, stepping up next to my sister. He is slightly behind her, still, using her as protection against me.

Right, my brother-in-law. Here is quick a summary of him because he does not deserve anything longer: He is a football player from America that claims to have fallen in love with my sister when he was walking into Barney's to buy flowers for his girlfriend at the time. Romantic, right? After breaking up with his girlfriend, he started dating my sister. At the time, she was 22 and he was 26. Four years, not so bad. On their first year anniversary of dating, she found out he had been cheating on her with his ex girlfriend for the last six months. Thanks to his (supposed) good looks and charm, my sister forgave him and took him back. Then, a month later, he cheated again. And the story goes on until six months later, she found out she was pregnant.

Being the great guy he is, Isaac _really_ ended things with his ex girlfriend, proposed to my sister, and moved her out to Shenley with him where, after suffering a nasty knee injury, became a team manager for Arsenal, the team he could no longer play for. However, he also became a big gambler and almost bankrupted their lives on three separate occasions when he went to Vegas with his friends. He blamed it on the injury, but I didn't realize that gambling was supposed to heal a broken ego.

Two years later, after that cursed day her and Isaac met, Charlotte is now 24, he is 28, they have a beautiful baby girl (she takes after our side of the family), and another one on the way.

And I still hate him.

So I am not surprised that he hides behind my sister in our stare down.

"Isaac," I say, nodding my head at him before averting my eyes. My father waltzes up to me next, wrapping me in a gift of unconditional warmth and love.

"You're here," he says. "It's like a miracle."

"What's more of a miracle - our daughter showing up, or Jesus walking barefoot and wounded out of his tomb after being crucified?" my mum adds aggressively, taking over my dad's job of slicing fruit.

"Definitely Noreen showing up," Charlotte says, lightening the mood while offering an odd glance towards mum. I shrug my shoulders, communicating with my eyes that I have no clue what the hell her problem is this morning. 

"Play play play play play—"

"Okay, okay," I say to Ava, picking her up again. Although I am thankful to hand back my niece to her parents at the end of the day, I am also thankful for her timely interruption from my mother's hostile fruit chopping.  
  
\---

After breakfast and a walk around the park together, the family has settled in different rooms. My parents take a nap before they have to start on dinner, Isaac has retreated into his office to make calls to some team members (liar), and Ava has fallen asleep on my lap while watching a cartoon.

Charlotte enters after having released her bladder for the millionth time that day, and takes a seat on the couch adjacent to me. She rubs her swollen belly mindlessly, and I shift in my seat as my legs start to go numb.

"About a month to go?" I ask, eyeing her.

She groans. "Give or take a week, yeah. I just want this damn thing out of me."

"I'm happy the baby can't understand you yet," I reply playfully.

"They know I love them. But sometimes, when they kick me for hours on end, I wonder if they feel the same about me? Like hello tiny person, you are hurting your mumma." She places both hands on her belly and grins down at it. Although I might consider my sister's youth a loss because of her early commitment to motherhood, she does not show it as being one. If anything, being a mum is just that to her, being a mum, being herself. While she was pregnant with Ava, she worked part time at small mechanics shop in town. One thing about my sister is that she hates, and I mean really despises, the flower business. She would rather plunge port-a-potty's all day, or in her case, work around cars—my theory is she would love to take one and leave London, leave the family business, and leave Isaac. 

But the little angel asleep on my lap stops her short of doing anything.

When my sister isn't chasing babies, and making them, she does hardcore projects around the house, builds bookcases and cribs, and even fixes all the issues with the family cars. I do not envy her life, but I admire how much she loves it. Even if she has to do it with her piece of shit husband, but that's besides the point. She is a handywoman, after all - she's all about fixing things, even those that are unfixable.

"Mum and dad are worried about you, you know," she suddenly says while staring, what feels like, straight into my soul.

"Is that why mum seemed so joyful this morning to see me?"

"You know her - she's worried about you. And instead of communicating that like a normal person and telling you, she bottles it up and takes it out on you."

"That's great, really," I say, shaking my head in disbelief and irritation.

"She just wants you to call more and talk to her about how you're _really_ doing. She's jealous of your therapist."

"See, they're just bored," I say. "Once the new baby pops out, they'll be fine. It will be someone new to worry about."

"Noreen," Charlotte responds, arching an eyebrow and giving me a disapproving look. I am the older sister, but somehow, she feels more authoritative. She always has"You got attacked in our family shop for god's sake. And your boyfriend jumped to his death five months ago. You are not okay."

Another thing about my sister: she does not beat around the bush.

I remember you liked that about her, when you first met my family.

_We pulled up to the home, my childhood home. It was perfect timing that you would see it before my parents moved out_ _the following month_ _and followed my sister to the country. Also, it was the perfect excuse to finally introduce my consulting detective boyfriend to my very nosy parents. We had been dating for around t_ _wo_ _months. Not knowing how the famous Sherlock Holmes would respond to family dinners early on, I avoided barraging you with my dad's physical affection and my mum's judging eyes. Instead, I excused us from every interaction by claiming a sick stomach or preconceived plans that we could not cancel. I even offered excuses, which were sometimes true, that you were on a murder case and sniffing out the perp as we spoke; that shut them up quickly._

_Also, I wasn't immune to the fact that they might not like you. Half the time I didn't even like you. Somehow you always managed to visit me in the flower shop when they weren't there, and I wondered if this was also on purpose. And it probably was because everything you do is on purpose._

_As we cross the street and walk up the steps, I feel a tug on the back of my coat. "Yes?" I inquire, turning to face you. I expect to find you right behind me, but instead, you have stepped back aways. I sense the space between us, too, something unspoken. "What is it?"_

_Y_ _ou look hesitant, which is unlike yourself. Your arms are behind your back - a typical stance - but at closer look they move a bit and I imagine your fingers twiddling themselves. "I feel.." You begin, but quickly cut yourself off. I can count on one hand the amount of times you have said the words_ "I feel," _and usually they have do with you feeling that I am annoying you. However, now does not seem like one of those times._

_You hesitate again, perfect lips ajar and ready, like words are aching to bounce between them. You want to tell me how you feel, but it is hard. I want to kiss you, but now is not the time._

_"Why do I suddenly feel so human right now?"_

_"Is this a trick question?" I ask, stepping down a few steps towards you. We are at eye level now, and you glance around in thought before zeroing in on my gaze._

_"My heart is pumping. My stomach feels a bit upset, like I ate something bad for lunch. This of course is not possible because I did not eat lunch—"_

_"Sherlock," I warn, shaking my head. "John is supposed to supervise your meal—"_

_"Shh, I'm talking. Also, I cannot seem to stop moving. Whether it is tapping my foot, fixing my hair, pulling at my coat, I cannot get comfortable. Even perspiration is starting to gather at my shirt, under my arms. Isn't deodorant made to work? I feel so.. disgusting. Is this how you always feel?"_

_Your blue eyes dart between mine, and I realize you are really, truly asking me this._

_"No," I answer, "I do not always feel nervous."_

_"Nervous? I'm not nervous—"_

_"Sherlock, please. You're meeting my family for the first time, and you just deduced some telltale, bodily signs of anxiety emitting from yourself. You may not realize you are since your brain is an odd and one-of-a-kind mechanism—"_

_"Why thank you."_

_"But, admit it, you are nervous." I dare to put my arms around your neck, bringing our faces mere inches from each other. Our noses almost boop together. "It's pretty cute."_

_At that, you throw your head from side to side, a bitter look etching into your features. "Now I'm cute? These human traits are violently despicable, Noreen. I do not know which is worse: sweating, or being cute."_

_"Definitely being cute," I say turning and walking up the rest of the steps towards the door. I hear your light, dancer-like steps behind me. I also catch a whiff of you mumbling under your breath, something like "humans.. disgusting.. anything but cute." I do not say this out loud, but I agree with you: you are_ sexy, _not cute_.

_Because this was technically my crib—also the place I slept in my crib—I walk right in. As if my parents knew we were waiting outside (probably trying to eavesdrop), they greet us at the door. "Noreen, my baby," coos my dad, planting a kiss on my forehead._

_"You're mistaking me for Charlotte," I say, offering him a kiss on the cheek back._

_"No, he has it right, you are the big baby of the family," my mum says, pulling me in for a half hug. "It's been so long I almost didn't recognize you," she remarks, looking at me up and down. Of course, I know this is her passive aggressive way of saying:_ "I miss you. And I'm pissed you've been dating this guy for two months and we're just now meeting him."

_"Life has been crazy," I say. When I turn to find you, making sure you have survived the first thirty seconds in my home with my family, I see that you are barely making it: my dad has you in a bear hug. Your arms are not wrapped around him in the slightest, though they are flung out to the side in surprise, and your screwed up eyes tell me you are experiencing a mild amount of pain. And uncomfortableness._

_"Dad," I say, pulling him away from you. "Don't kill him before you even meet him."_

_"Or before I even meet him," I hear a voice say. It is Charlotte. She stands with a small Ava on her hip, behind my mum. She marches up to us and stops short of you, staring you dead in the eyes. "Are you a crazy psychopath who's going to murder my sister?"_

_I go still because.. well.. what the hell, Charlotte? Out of all the things to say to you the first time she meets you, she goes with this._

I guess your response was not much better.

_I watch you stare down at her, brows fixed in focus. For a second I am scared at what you will say, what you are thinking._

_Maybe this is the end of us. My sister has done us in with her accusations, and my dad's physical affection will drive you far far away from me._

_Then a smirk appears on your beautiful face, sharpening your cheek bones, and a deep laugh escapes you momentarily. "Don't be silly, Charlotte Jacobs, I am not a psychopath." I exhale all my stress. That was a semi-normal response considering the circumstances._

_"I am a high functioning sociopath and I don't commit murders, I solve them."_

_Okay, that_ was _a normal response, until that last part._

_My sister breaks and starts laughing, throwing her head back in pure enjoyment. "Nice to finally meet you, Sherlock. My sister has nothing but good things to say about you. Welcome to the Jacobs family," she says, squeezing my shoulder before leaving us with my parents._

_I glance quickly at you, checking to make sure you are still okay being here with my family and my outrageously upfront sister. You are already watching me, and when we meet eyes, I understand what you say:_ I like her. 

And throughout that night—even when my mum seemed to disapprove of your bloodlust for murder, and Isaac kept trying to talk about football nonsense, and Ava kept taking food off your plate—at the end of it all, I saw the same look in your eyes: _I like them._

_I like you._

\---

When I leave the house, my dad carries Ava as they stand on the porch and woefully watch me depart. I blow a kiss to Ava, and she sends me many more back. I get into the car, starting it and letting a slow heat radiate through the vehicle. Darkness has consumed the night, and with it, brought the cold. The radio station I was playing earlier is still on a loop, and they have started on a thirty minute streak of doo-wop. I turn the volume up.

Pulling away from the curb, I glance back at the porch. My father still stands, watching me go off, but Ava is gone and has been replaced by my mother. Her arm is in the crook my dad's elbow, and they both wave as I drive away.

My sister's comment about mum's longing to be a part of my life in a deeper way sits at the forefront of my brain. Maybe I will call her. Maybe I will tell her more about you.

I make the few turns it takes to get out of Shenley and onto a country road back to London. The road is empty, besides a car that now drives behind me a ways. The Five Satins starts to play "In the Still of the Night" and my heart drops.

_In the still of the night.. I held you.. Held you tight_

Oh how I would have held you tight, Sherl.

_'Cause I love.. Love you so.. Promise I'll never.. Let you go_

If you would have let me, I never would have let you go. 

_In the still of the night_

I remember those nights, you waiting for me to fall asleep at the edge of my bed.

_I remember.. That night in May.. The stars were bright above_

Whether it be May, or June, or that fateful November, I remember everything about our too short time together. Ten months. Long enough to start loving you.

_I'll hope and I'll pray.. To keep.. Your precious love.. Well before the light_

I would hold your precious love for eternity—your precious curls, cheekbones, scarves, anything. 

_Hold me again with all of your might_

_In the still of the night_

Oh Sherlock.

By the end of the song, I am crying. The lines on the road are blurring. I take deep breaths, calming the sobs that ache to cry out.

I am okay. You are not here, but I am still okay. Singing that song and crying is okay. It means I care. It will not bring you back. It is supposed to hurt, you not being here. Pain is okay, pain is real. You were real.

You are real.

I wipe the remaining tears with my sweater sleeve, continually taking deep, soothing breaths. I know they will leak out into a clusterfuck chorus of weeping when I reach home, but now I need to focus on driving so I can even live to make it home. In all this time of crying, the song has changed - "Twilight Time" by The Platters rings through the speakers. Having only been on the road for ten minutes, I have really put myself through an emotional rollercoaster. I look through the windows in my car and try to spot the moon.

A light catches my eye in the rearview mirror and my eyes dart to study it. A car is behind me, closer than I am comfortable with. Jackass. Their headlights are normal, not on bright, and I wonder if they turned on a flashlight or an overhead light for a moment. But then it happens again. And again. I catch it this time—the driver behind me is turning their brights on and off, flashing me. Although I am already going 10 miles over the speed limit, this driver is on my tail. If they press down on the gas anymore, they will bump the back of my car.

And I will most certainly be in trouble because this is not my car.

My mind is triggered to a story I once read. A woman was driving and a car kept flashing their lights while driving behind her. Getting irritated, she began taking random turns to lose them, but they only followed further. Because of this, her paranoia only became greater. Eventually, she pulled her car into her driveway and got out, ready to confront the driver who pulled up behind her. "Why were you flashing your brights at me?" the woman had yelled at the driver who exited their vehicle. The driver, looking sheepish and scared, had replied: "Because, there is a man in your back seat who was trying to stab you. Every time I saw them pull the knife out to kill you, I flashed my brights and they would stop and duck down in the back again."

Movement caught the woman's eye in the back of her car and, sure enough, she saw a man in the backseat with a knife.

Now, I glance into my own backseat, worried that I am now the woman in this story. Thankfully my backseat is free of creepy men wielding knives.

However, a new story creeps into my mind. One where a woman was attacked in her own flower shop by a man who had been stalking her. But no, this is not that man behind me. I am just paranoid.

As if he has heard me, the car speeds up to pass me. My heart lightens for a moment, realizing that this person is just a speed demon and not my crazy stalker.

But the car does not pass me. Instead, it comes up on my right and holds the same speed. I look over, confused because an oncoming car could drive down this road at any moment and crash into this one.

And it is _him_.

He has turned on the overhead light in his car, just for me to see him. I recognize his clean haircut. Even in the night, his eyes sparkle with psychotic tendencies.

He winks at me, then slows down and follows behind me again.

He is following me home. Has been following me all day, probably. He waited for me to leave my family's house, just so he could stalk me, taunt me. Attack me.

Without realizing, I have begun to shake. My hands on the wheel are no longer steady, and they jerk the car from side to side every millisecond. The headache from my concussion comes back at the same time that nausea hits the bottom of my stomach. He has found me again, and this time, I feel that I he will not let me go so easily.

What do those online articles say to do when someone is following you home in a car? I believe the first step is.. don't go home. Okay. Next step? I look behind me and he has lended more room between our cars. How kind of him. Focus, next step? Call someone!

Call Mycroft.

I remember Greg saying that Mycroft knew more about this guy than Greg did, so I figure Mycroft might know how to handle this moment a little better. It's not that I want to call him, but I _must._ Before thinking too much, I dial his number and put him on speaker. I try to hold the phone low so the man does not spot me talking to someone. The less this creep knows, the better.

After the first ring, Mycroft answers.

"You really should not be talking on the phone and driving at the same time. Safety hazard." The drawling voice he scolds me in strikes an immediate nerve.

"How do you know I am driving?" I demand, forgetting for a moment that I am in imminent danger—in my defense, his greeting was imminently infuriating. But only silence returns my question. "Mycroft," I warn. If he is going to know my every movement, he may as well admit it.

"I see your location is moving at a rapid pace, is all. I did not realize you could run 80 miles per hour."

"Okay, arsehole. I will yell at you later for stalking me, but right now, I need your help. Someone—well not just anyone— _HE_ is following me."

Immediately, there is a flurry of movement from his side of the phone, and I hear muffled speaking, dialing, scuffling.

"Mycroft?" I say, breathing hard. My eyes switch between my rearview mirror and the road in front of me. The man is still allowing breathing room between our vehicles and I sense the confidence oozing out of the creaks and crevices of his car. He knows what he is doing, and he is allowing me to panic and freak. He is taking this chase slow because, to him, he has all night to torture me. "Mycroft? Are you there?" I hate to admit it, but my voice trembles. I pray Mycroft has not abandoned me.

"Yes, yes, listen to me, dear. Noreen. Greg is sending out some officers in cars to find you and this man. Drive straight to Scotland Yard. Once there, pull up to the front, get out the car, and run towards Greg. He will be outside with other officers in case this monster decides to stop when you do. If he keeps driving, Greg has cars ready to follow the man and arrest him. Drive to Scotland Yard. You will be okay. They will catch him."

I nod in response, though I know he can't hear me.

"Noreen, are you there?"

"Y-yes, yes." I fumble over my words. Nothing has changed - the man still follows me at a distance. But the directions from Mycroft have sent me into spirals. This is really happening. I am really in danger. My attack in the flower shop, I did not have time to process in the moment. But this, I still have twenty minutes until I reach Scotland Yard. Plenty of time to process. Plenty of time to freak out.

I realize I am still holding the phone, and the call is still going.

"Mycroft?" I ask again, my voice but a hoarse sound.

"Drive faster, Noreen. No cops will pull you over for speeding."

I glance down and realize I am only driving the speed limit. I obey and speed up.

"Good, thank you."

"No, thank you, again. It seems that's all I can say to you these days."

"What was that you mentioned earlier about scolding me for stalking you?" Playfulness is at the edge of his nasally voice.

I chuckle a bit, shaking my head at his cheekiness. "If I was not paralyzed by fear, I would yell at you, not just scold."

"And that would be a very typical Noreen gesture."

"What is that supposed to mean?" I ask, gladly accepting his bait. I know he has nothing to say but teasing things, but I do not mind the comfort of it at this moment. Speaking of, I see lights of the city come into view. Waves of relief wash over me. Checking the rearview mirror, the man is still stalking my car from afar as a predator does.

Ignoring my question, but somehow reading my mind, Mycroft asks, "How far is he behind you?"

"He has been leaving me some room. But I know he is just waiting for an opportunity.. for me to stop so he can.. strike." I swallow back a dull nauseous sensation brewing in me, a sensation I have become accustomed to as I continually am in a state of trauma. "Mycroft," I say, breaking a moment of silence that ensued. "Who is this man?"

He takes his time, clearing his throat before he answers. I picture his suited up style, tight and tense. His face, right now, would probably be laced with irritation at my nosey question, one that he had not bothered to answer for me prior because he did not yet want to.

"Noreen, focus on driving."

"Mycroft, focus on answering the question."

"You are almost to Scotland Yard," he responds with a clipped tone. I hate that he is right. More cars are on the bypass next to me, and the creep has caught up to me and is riding my tail.

"I deserve to know who this is!" I argue, getting frustrated. Mycroft treats me like a child, and I am tired of it. First, he babies me after your death, ordering me here and there, to the therapist and out of the bar. Because, apparently, he knows best. All he knows is how to be a prick.

"I believe one of Lestrade's officers are a couple turns away from you. They will accompany you to the Yard and start to follow the man once you have parked. We do not think he will pull in behind you once he sees where you are headed, but we can never be sure with a maniac like this."

I choose to stay silent. I am furious. This man, this fucking maniac I am talking to. He can't even answer a damn question.

"Noreen, are you there?" He sounds concerned, but I don't care. I hit the red button to end the call, tossing the phone into the passenger seat beside me. Let him worry. Let him wonder. He doesn't answer my questions? I won't answer his.

I spend the next seven minutes focused on taking turns and switching lanes until I spot Scotland Yard a couple blocks away. The creep has been diligently following me, sticking close to my bumper and not letting any car between us. Streetlights and bright buildings have allowed glimpses into his car through my rearview mirror, but they are brief. It is always just the hair and the wild eyes that I can make out. Now, he slows a bit, sensing where I am headed. Will he follow me? Or does he save himself? I have not spotted the designated officer cars that Greg dispatched, but maybe that is a good thing - they are hidden from plain view.

As I come up to the front of Scotland Yard, I see Greg to my right, standing in a blocked off road. Thankfully, there is no oncoming traffic, and I take a right and almost run right into him. Panicked, I shut off the car and jump out. He meets me outside my door, but his eyes scan the road behind me, where I have come from. The car the creep was driving, which I now realize is a Ford Focus, zooms past in a flurry of black in the night. Suddenly, three more vehicles, that seconds earlier were everyday passengers, flash their police lights and speed after him.

I am safe.

For the timebeing.

"Noreen, it's okay, they'll catch him," says Greg, tugging me towards the building. Other officers, I am just now noticing, stand about and ready for action. In case he had pulled in after me. Movement catches my eye, and I see a sniper leaving from its place on the roof.

"The whole damn police force was out here," I mumble, both grateful and shocked.

"Mycroft said it was an emergency."

I just nod and let Greg lead me towards an open door that an officer holds open. I peek around at the hustle and bustle around us as officers mill around, stuck in between starting their next assignment and waiting to see what happens with this one.

"I just need to ask you a few questions, Noreen, then I'll let you go for the night. And don't worry, Mycroft will station extra agents outside your parents' house and your flat. This monster will not get anywhere near you."

Before I can respond with the fact that this creep had no trouble getting close to me tonight, an interesting sight catches my eye. A familiar sleek, silver car is parked next to the curb across the street. I have seen this car parked like that too many times not to know who the occupant is. But as I try to catch another glimpse before I am pulled into the doors by Greg, the car crawls away, as if he was never there.

\---

After showering away the fear and anxiety that had seeped into my bones from the earlier events, I crawl into bed. Sleeping tonight might not happen, and I woefully accept that many more restless nights are ahead of me. Regardless of Mycroft's watchful eyes and armed M16 agents watching all entrances to the building, I cannot shake the truth of this situation: Someone is watching me. Someone wants to kill me.

It had been easy to name the flower shop attack a one time occurence, but tonight had been planned. He had been waiting outside my parents' house for me to leave. The entire day.

Oh god, my parents.

Greg swore that Mycroft was stationing people there as well. And at my sister's. Still, the idea of this monster hurting any of my family brought nausea to my insides.

I take a deep breath. In two days I will be seeing Dr. Davies again, and I can dump all this out on her. She is, really, the only person who knew the terror and paranoia I felt on a daily basis, and would begin to feel again in massive waves. Yes, Ellis and Parker were my best friends, and my precious coworkers would kindly offer me an ear and shoulder, but none of them understood.

And I did not want to terrify my friends with tales of deadly nightmares and constant worries that the man was always around the corner waiting for me.

For the record, I would have told you everything. If you were here.

I grab the Atwood novel I had been meandering through for the last two weeks and flip on my lamp as I hopped onto my bed. I groan upon realizing I have to get up again to turn off the main light in my bedroom. I double check the lock on my bedroom door despite already knowing the lock to my front door is secure. I also opt to put my overflowing laundry basket against the bedroom door for extra protection, just in case. Better safe than sorry.

Upon thumping onto my bed once more, the light from my phone catches my eye.

A text from Mycroft. What a pleasant surprise.

_I assume the rest of the evening went as expected and you made it home safely. MH_

A statement, not even a question. I snort at my response as I type it out, thinking back to the car I had spotted near Scotland Yard:

_You already know I did._

When I receive an instant reply, my curiosity is piqued: Mycroft Holmes appeared quite an eager texter. Had someone informed me of this six months ago, I would have laughed in their face since Mycroft never seemed eager about anything. Of course, our friendship back then was limited to chance encounters in 221B and nodding our head in acknowledgement of each other—that is, if you did not count his visit to Barney's at the beginning of Sherlock and I's relationship.

Before I get sucked into the memory of that odd meeting, I read what he sends next:

_I thought I would inquire about you in a more personable manner._

I feel a sting of guilt. Calling him out of the blue tonight and reporting that my alleged attacker was following me on my drive home was not the most relaxing experience. Still, the man could at least appreciate my humor a little. Or, I guess I could be more sensitive.

_Right, yes. I made it home safely. Thank you for answering my call earlier. I imagine I might be dead right now without your quick acting and powerful influence over all British entities._

I tapped send, not bothering to lock my phone as I assumed he—and there it was: another response before I could even finish my thought.

_It would not be the first time I intervene in your fated demise._

I chuckled out loud at that one. There was the dry humored man I picture him as. Before thinking too much about it—banter with him was surprisingly enjoyable—I sent my reply:

_You must want to keep me around, or something like that._

I must confess, my face reddened and I winced as I reread what I sent. Again, I let my phone stay open as I waited—hoped, prayed—he would respond with something just as playful and, well, slightly forward in assuming that he cared about me at all. When a minute passed, which for Mycroft seemed a long time, I locked my phone and buried my nose in Atwood's prose. My insides cringed as I waited for my phone to light up again.

But no response. 

I told myself it was fine, that being the last person to send a text is not something to be embarrassed about, especially when it is a mere friend. In the case of Mycroft, I might just consider him an acquaintance, maybe an almost-friend. Even so, the text was in no way risque, just teasing in nature. Just a joke. Of course he wanted to keep me around - why else would he pay for my therapy, or order agents to watch over mine and my family's homes? He felt he owed it to you to keep me safe, I guess.

Since you cared for me, I guess.

Besides, Mycroft was no monster. He would never wish death upon anyone, except maybe his enemy.

I hoped I was not his enemy.

\---

_The next morning_

What I realize next is that pastel light is shining through the blinds of my window, as well as from my bedside table lamp that I never turned off last night. It's morning. The Atwood novel is on the ground next to bed. It had landed in a horribly unfortunate position from my tossing and turning. Grunting, I reach over the side of my bed to pick it up and try bending back the crinkled pages.

I check the time on my phone, and my sleepiness and crusty eyes rapidly dissipate as I read a text from Mycroft that came through late last night, after I had fallen asleep. It reads:

_Yes, something like that._

Let's rewind:

_You must want to keep me around, or something like that._

_Yes, something like that._ _  
_

And there we have it: he just doesn't want me to die. Case closed.

Instantly, I feel more relaxed knowing that I was not the last one to send a message, especially one that is so uncharacteristically sentimental.

Little did I know, Mycroft had felt that exact dread in sending me this message, the same uneasy thoughts at the possibility that he, too, was being too friendly.

He would never admit it, but great minds worry alike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took way longer to get out. And it was soooo emotionally and physically taxing to write! But that is the price for writing: sometimes it is painful. In the end, though, it is always pleasurable!
> 
> I am making plans for future chapters and, boy oh boy, do I have some GREAT moments planned with both Mycroft and Sherlock. Just you wait, y'all. You've got a big storm coming.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Let me know if there are any questions, or if something is not clear. Or if you think this story is awesome, which I always love and appreciate hearing. Love writing for y'all!
> 
> Cheers!
> 
> (P.S. I am an uncultured American, so I need some serious help with the UK and London details/accuracies. I'm trying my best! Any tips or resources help.)


	6. Six Months

_Six months after_

Spring flowers are quite possibly the most scrumptious of colors and smells. Today, the sun shines through the front store windows of Barney's and illuminates the blues, pinks, and yellows. The rays draw out the perfumed scent of these living creatures and send them swirling around the shop. Flowers dance in their bouquets and planter boxes, calling in strangers on the street who gladly take them home.

Today is a good day. My cup of coffee felt stronger this morning, my feet feel bouncier on the faux wood floor, and Max and and Carl have been making jokes that have not failed to make me erupt in chuckles and clutch my belly. I give all credit to the sun who decided to make an appearance and disperse the gray that has encapsulated London for so long.

Not to mention, sales have been _very_ steady this morning.

Despite the fact that my stalker is still on the loose even with Scotland Yard's attempt to chase after him, I have not seen or hear from him since. I take that as a reason to celebrate. The fear and paranoia are still there, clutching my insides deep down, but it is easier to breathe and move around today, so I am thankful.

"It's barely lunchtime and we've already made more today than all of last week combined," comments Max from behind me. He stands at the counter and looks over our record of sales. It's true—my feet are sore from standing while I piece together arrangements, and from accompanying so many customers around the store. But it is the good kind of soreness, one that can only come from accomplished work.

"In that case, I think I will take my lunch before another rush. Call for me if you need help," I say, leaving Max to waddle around the store alone. I know he appreciates being trusted with handling the store without supervision. I take pleasure in watching his face brighten up as I pass him and head to the break room. When I enter the break room, Carl is sitting at our small dingy table, sipping on a soda and reading "Dreams From My Father" by Barack Obama.

"Enjoying an American tale?" I ask as I grab my leftover soup from the mini fridge.

"He's no Larry McMurtry, but the man can write a good sentence." He winks at me and sets the book down. "You're letting the kid manage the place?"

"He has to learn sometime, Carl. You're not getting any younger, and neither am I." I press the buttons on our microwave and watch my bowl twirl around and around through the glass.

"Oh spare me, Noreen, you're not even to the prime of your life. Thirty years old. You can still climb a mountain, or move to another country and make up a new identity, or marry an old man for his money and live off his inheritance for the rest of your life."

"Now we're talking," I joke. "But really, I'm scared of heights. There will be no mountain climbing for me. Perhaps I will sail the ocean, though. I've always wanted to stay the night on a boat."

Before Carl can respond, I hear fast footsteps approach the break room—I have an inkling my peaceful lunch is about to be ruined. Turning to see what Max needs, I watch as he enters with a confused look. "Uh, Noreen, Becca is here with some woman who says she's looking for you."

"What? She has today off, though," I mutter, leaving my unmanaged soup to spin in the microwave. Max shrugs and I breeze past him as I make the short walk to front of the store, ignoring the beeping soup in the microwave. Carl will get it.

Becca stands behind the counter, putting on the apron she always opts to wear when working, to prevent dirt stains from peppering her clothes. Across from her, a woman with curled, brown hair clicks at her phone. I recognize her, but cannot place where I know her, or even her name. It starts with an A. Andrea? Adriana? Alexia? Ignoring the lady momentarily, I address Becca instead.

"What are you doing? You have today off?" I , and she turns to face me.

"I—well.." She trails off, glancing nervously at the woman who stands, still typing furiously on her phone. Becca looks at my again and shrugs, then points to the woman. "She can explain better."

"Excuse me," I say, addressing the woman from across the counter. "Who are you?"

The woman doesn't even glance up at me. "Anthea, I think. Assistant to Mycroft Holmes. He needs to see you in his office right now."

ANTHEA! Now everything clicks into place - I remembered seeing her outside of Mycroft's car multiple times, or at his side and, as always, typing on her phone. You, Sherlock, never seemed to take any special notice of her, which I appreciated. I cannot help it though: I must roll my eyes at the mention of Mycroft. "Well I have to work for the rest of the day, so please tell Mycroft I—"

"Ms. Haver here will cover for you," Anthea responds, taking one hand to motion to Becca. Again, I look at Becca and she only shrugs; a fearful look in her eyes tells me she does not want to argue with Anthea.

"But she is supposed to have today off," I argue, crossing my arms and starting to get annoyed. "And why couldn't he have just texted me?" Anthea removes her eyes from her phone and finally takes a second to look at me. Straight on, her beauty is stunning, and the fact that she owns it with confidence makes me shrink into my own skin.

"Yes, he seems to have no problem doing that, does he?" she says bitterly. "Mycroft predicted you would argue. That's why he made sure Ms. Haver can _afford_ to work today and take tomorrow off." I catch the accentuation on the word.

"He bribed my staff?"

Anthea smirks at me like I'm stupid. "No, he rewarded her."

I turn to look for Becca, but she is already busying herself with a rearranging the bouquets in the fridge. She has given in so easily. Biting my cheek, I struggle to find the words to say next. "Why does he want to talk to me?" I finally ask. Anthea is back to clicking on her phone again and sighs when I ask this, as if MY presence is a burden. I just wanted my damn soup, woman.

"You asked about your attacker, and now he wants to share information."

"Oh," is all I can say. "I just don't know if it's a good idea that I leave—"

"Ms. Jacobs, please get in the car. Mr. Holmes has taken care of everything. Your shop will be fine, but this meeting is urgent and Mycroft insists you attend." Her sudden stare is penetrating.

"Fine," I bite out. I grab my bag from the staff room and inform Max and Carl of the sudden change, saying Becca can explain later. When I reach the front of the store, Anthea has disappeared.

"Where did she go?" I ask Becca, still working at the fridge.

She turns and faces me, taking a few steps closer. "Outside, in the car."

I offer a consoling grimace and pat on the arm. "I'm sorry this happened. I can give you another day off this week." 

"No really, Noreen, it's okay. Your friend, Mr. Holmes, was quite generous enough." She smiles and raises her eyes as if to say _"if you know what I mean."_ Which I do - the man is filthy rich. "Besides," Becca continues, "you really should find out more about your.. stalker. It may help you stay safe." This time she offers me a consoling pat on the shoulder, then shoos me out the door. I enter the familiar, silver car that is parked outside the shop. Inside, Anthea still sits on her phone.

"Great weather outside," I comment, trying to break the awkwardness I feel sitting beside a person who will barely acknowledge my presence.

"There's really no need for small talk," replies Anthea.

While her response is blunt, and a bit rude, I accept her comment with grace. It reminds me of you. How often you just wanted to sit in silence, and how often you were not afraid to tell me. Today is a good day, and because of that, I can think about you with a smile on my face. I decide to spend this car ride, however long, remembering you. I am afraid that our moments will grow fuzzy, that I will forget certain words you spoke, certain looks you gave, special moments we shared.

I settle on a memory of you and I, taking an evening stroll one April night.

_You had just solved a case that required you to play a game on the computer for twelve hours straight in order to save someone's life ("These blasted millennial hackers" John had yelled). After John helped force some food into your mouth once the case was over, I dragged you down 221B and out the door - it was crucial you got out of the stuffy flat and away from any screens. Already night had been creeping in and street lamps were beginning to pop on. It was chilly, but people milled around on the sidewalks._

_"The graphics are horrible in this place," you grumbled when we had only walked about fifty feet away from 221B._

_"Perhaps you need some glasses—this is the read world, Sherlock. The sharpest image you will get."_ _I glanced over at you and your eyes were squinty and irritated as they faced forward. The little crease between your brows was growing deeper as people neared - you were really not happy I made you go outside where other humans also were. But your pouty face was so cute. For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine our child, if we ever had one, that might make the same face. But then I stopped myself and blushed under the night sky: we had only been dating for a few months. We barely even kissed, let alone did the deed. Or talked about the deed. Or the future._

_Your voice broke my thoughts. "Yes, but it will give me a headache like no other. Look at all these characters," you complained quietly to me, referring to the people that passed by us. "Do they have a mission in life? A campaign to follow?"_

_I cleared my throat, readying myself for what I was sure would be a long winded conversation. "Yes, I think so. Why else would they be on this earth?"_

_"To annoy me," you responded, giving the side eye to a man who passed by, his shoulder rubbing angrily against mine. "It's like people are asking to be murdered. Well I will solve none of their cases! Let them be dead."_

_Before you started ripping someone to shreds or pantsing them (as you often did to John when he was talking for too long), I grabbed your arm dragged you down a park path the lay on our right. Lamps lit the way and, thankfully, it was devoid of people._

_"Better?" I asked. You side eyed me and nodded. My arm still clung to the inside of your elbow and I removed it carefully, knowing you thought touch was quite burdensome in most moments._

_"This is an ugly path," you remarked suddenly, nostrils flared in disgust. "What a horrible park in the middle of a horrible city filled with horrible people—"_

_"Okay, what's your problem?" I asked, stopping in the path and crossing my arms. Normally, I could handle your dismal moods and angsty eye rolling, but taking you on a walk had only been a nice gesture. Most things I did were a nice gesture, and you never appreciated them. "Do you really have to complain about everything? What's next? Me? Am I a horrible person, too?" I really did not mean for any of that to come out besides the first question, but a woman in the shop today had critiqued me endlessly, every bouquet I made for her was "horrible," and she requested a new one. By the time she left, I was biting back tears. You did not know any of this of course because you never asked, which I really wanted you to. I wanted you to care._

_Your face melted into a sheepish frown. Ashamed. Your lips are parted to speak, but nothing came out but a warm fog of breath._

_"What?" I snapped, waiting for you to react. Waiting for you to say something else that would infuriate me into oblivion._

_"I only wanted you to hold my arm again." Your voice is barely above a whisper, but I hear every word crystal clear._

_"What?" I ask, again. This is an exclamation I use with you often, seeing as everything you say and do is quite unbelievable, Sherlock._

_"I thought if I continued complaining, you might grab my arm again like you did back there." Your mouth is coiled in a nervous smile, blue eyes wide and wavering underneath the glow of a lamppost. It was clear my dissatisfaction with you made you uncomfortable - you were used to me doting and falling all over you._ _I sigh because it is hard not to. It is hard to be mad at you, Sherlock. You are so beautiful when innocent and unknowing, like now. You really just wanted me to hold your arm? Still, you're very frustrating, but beautiful nonetheless._

_"Why didn't you just ask me to hold your arm? Or perhaps grab my arm yourself?" I finally question._

_You shrug. Instead of asking more questions that won't be answered, I move next to you and place my hand in the crook of your elbow, leaning close as we begin to walk again. You smell like peppermint and a warm fireplace, with a hint of flowers. I breathe in and heave a happy sigh, enjoying the comfort between us. Your body, too, relaxes. We walk on, happy. Together._

_"Mission accomplished," you whisper, and when your lips caress the side of my head, my knees almost buckle._

\---

The building the car slows in front of is cream, with aged windows lining the walls. It is unmarked and does not stand out from any other building on the street. This is not what I expect from a person who is the entire British government. It is too humble for the Holmes I have come to know.

"This is where he works?" I inquire aloud, slightly underwhelmed.

Anthea looks at me for a moment, a fake smile plastered on her face. "Sure," she responds, getting out of the car and starting to walk towards the glass door. Not having time to question what kind of respond that is, I quickly undue my seatbelt and scramble out of the car to follow. Before opening the door, she turns back. "Don't speak," she instructs me.

Because her beauty is dazzling and her eyes dare me to disobey, I nod and awkwardly pretend to zip my mouth shut and throw away the key. At that, she rolls her eyes and mutters something about me being almost as insufferable as Mycroft. My zipped lips raise at the edges into a tucked away smile. Upon nearing the open door, I note a gold plated sign with black letters that state: **THE DIOGENES CLUB**.

Inside, the smell of smoked tobacco hits my nose, along with expensive suits and the stink of white, male wealth. Anthea walks in a way that prevents her heels from clacking against the floor, while my sneakers scuff loudly. There are just men. And books. And tables. And smoke. And tea. Perhaps some alcohol.

Anthea leads me past these white haired ghosts and down a hall. Other, younger men walk past us now. Their feet are covered in white bags, and their footsteps make no noise - it is only the swish of their coattails at they round the corner behind us. Eventually, we reach a wooden door. It is unmarked, like many objects in this building. Anthea does not knock, but walks in as if she owns the place.

"I'm dropping off your package," reports Anthea, clicking on her phone again. I follow her steps into a room with walls half lined with expensive, carved wood, and the top painted the color of soft milk. There are bookshelves, armchairs, and plants. I spot more alcohol. Then I see Mycroft, standing at one of the bookshelves in a typical dressing of suit and tie. Upon us entering, he drags his attention toward us and away from whatever book his hand was reaching towards. His dull eyes bore into me for a second before turning to his assistant.

"Thank you, Anthea."

"Is that all?" Again, she does not even tear her eyes from the phone for one second.

"For now, yes. Except the—"

"The other package," she states, cutting him off and nodding in silent understanding - I feel left out. Another package? Another person he must force to meet him? I pity their soul. 

Anthea nods before leaving the room, brushing by my shoulder like I am not even there. Pleasant. Mycroft stands behind a fancy, uncomfortable looking armchair, then motions to the one across from it. "Noreen, take a seat, please."

I say nothing. Not because I am mad or upset, but because this is weird, for Mycroft and I. Sure, I have shared a car with him, talked on the phone, and even _texted_ the man, for god's sake. Being in his office, though, I am seeing a different part of him. He is not just someone who rides in the back of a mysterious silver car with a driver named Norman and follows me, and everyone else, around. Nor is he just your brother, anymore. He is a man who enjoys surprisingly comfortable seating, for himself and his guests. The small bar in a far corner tells me he appreciates a good crystal glass, usually with an amber liquid swirling in it. The books lining his shelves are bound in leather and gold patterns, not the usual paperbacks and front illustrations offered at my local buy-back bookstore. Mycroft likes value, tradition, formality. The room is almost warm, almost kind. But it has a stark _DO NOT TOUCH_ feel to it. A very Mycroft-like feel.

"You are practicing your deduction skills," he remarks. My eyes snap back from straining to read the book titles on spines to find this long and gangly man with his legs crossed, arms draped across the wood armrests on either side of his seat, watching me. His lips offer a smugness that only a Holmes could attain.

"I suppose I have had a good teacher," I reply. I am referring to you.

"Really? I do not recall teaching you anything. But perhaps you been observing me without my knowledge - the mark of a good student."

I cock my head and give him a look, because he must know I was referencing you. His stony exterior breaks and a well-intentioned smile crosses his face. I _deduce_ that he is only teasing, of course. My cheeks redden as I relax a bit, embarrassed to have taken him so seriously. After all, this is the guy who just about cried for his mum when I almost puked in his vehicle a few months back.

"Quite the jokester, Mycroft," I concede. "I have to say, I don't remember you being like this when I first met you."

He gives me a long couple blinks, then surprisingly, shrugs. I did not know Mycroft could be so.. not stiff. "Well, I confess you may not have known me as well back then as you do now. Circumstances have changed. You are no longer my little brother's nuisance of a pet. Instead, you are a person in considerable danger. Someone who must be protected."

I bite my lip and choose to ignore the jab about being your pet, and a nuisance. You would never call me your pet, right? "Many people need protecting, Mycroft. If the one person who held us together is no longer.. _here_ , then why protect me and not others? Surely there must be more important people who beg your attention more so than some florist." I leave off a sassy comment about me being a nuisance, deciding that spitefulness will get me nowhere (okay, maybe that comment did hurt me, a little). I watch Mycroft for any side of inward struggle at responding to me. Have these last six months been nothing but a favor to you and your dead self? Has there been no hint of friendship, no sprinkle of care from the statue in front of me? But his face is blank, and I decide his heart must be the same.

"If you must know, I happened to care very deeply for my brother. And he happened to contain some amount of sentiment for you, along with few others. After his untimely death, I felt it my duty to serve those he favored." He pauses, wetting his lips and sighing. "Additionally, this man who is following you, he has ties with Moriarty. And being who I am, in the position I occupy, it is in my job description to investigate."

We continue staring. Funny, Mycroft's gray eyes are also blank. Just like his monochrome suit. His spotless shoes. Everything with him is a single, sad color - no wonder his office shines so brightly when put up next to him.

"Are we not friends?" I ask, deliberately choosing, what might be, the most unexpected question. And there it is, a spark of bafflement comes from his eyes before he draws it back in. I see his mouth open, then close. Eventually, after gathering himself, a sick smile crosses his face.

"I do not have friends, Noreen."

Such a drama queen. I roll my eyes at his theatrics. He really enjoys playing the lonely man, a little too much if you ask me. "I think we are friends," I insist, raising my eyebrows.

"Please, don't torture me with such words." He brings a hand to his forehead, massaging it as if I am causing physical pain. It is something you would do, and it only brings me more joy and eggs on my teasing.

"Oh come on. We text, you make sure I get home okay, I call you when I'm in danger, we banter, you pay for my therapy lessons..." He glares at me disapprovingly, and I offer a sweet smile in return. "Your obligations and effort have gone beyond that of an older brother caring for his deceased, younger brother's emotionally distraught girlfriend of nine months, whom, for the record, you barely acknowledged for the entirety of their relationship. We are friends now, Mycroft."

"Why must you—"

"Because. I need a friend." The sad truth sits between us. It comes from the depth of my heart and feelings. I realize that him calling me your pet and a nuisance is not what stings. It is that he referred to me as "someone" and "a person," as if these last six months have not bonded us to be more than that. My words continue to fall. "John is.. long gone. It is painful for him to speak to me. I talk to Mrs. Hudson occasionally, but it always leads to talking about Sherlock, to remembering him, as if that is our only conversation in common. And my friends, Ellis and Parker.. a trip to the pub does not cure me like it does them. Neither does their acting as if nothing has even happened, like my boyfriend who jump off a bloody building doesn't even exist. And my coworkers, my family.. they act as if I will explode into a million pieces at any moment. I am tired of them tiptoeing around me. You are the only person I trust to not care enough to do any of that. You acknowledge him and his absence. But you do not pity me, nor yourself, enough to dwell on it. I need that. I need an in between."

I cannot tell if Mycroft is taken aback by my abruptness, or my lack of shame in spilling out the truth. It poured like molten lava, and I feel it drying in front of this cold man, his unreadable gaze stabbing into me. I offer one more lifeline, one more promise.

"I do not have to be your friend, but please be mine."

He raises his eyebrows in apparent surrender. After taking a moment's pause, he sighs. "Today, yes, I will be your friend. But I cannot promise tomorrow." And that is the perfect Mycroft response I need.

"Deal," I say.

"Very well." His face turns serious, a shade darker and scarier. "Now you must listen to me. I am your friend, but that does not mean I stand for the small talk of daily nothings. I called you here for a reason." He leans forward in his chair, hands cusping one another lightly. The shift of intensity has me leaning forward, following his lead. "Anthony Carver, thirty four years old and a retired marksman in the British Armed Forces. Discharged for mental conditions in 2008. Began working for Jim Moriarty at an unknown date. His last assignment was to—"

My pocket vibrates, and the familiar jingle of my ringtone echoes bounces between the high walls. "I'm sorry," I say, reaching into my pocket. "Let me just silence it."

Mycroft has leaned back with a sour look on his face, nodding me to go on with it. Grabbing ahold of my phone, I see it's my mum calling. That's weird, she never calls during the week. Or ever, actually.

Charlotte.

"OH MY GOSH!" I yell, causing Mycroft to jump out of the chair at the same time I do. I click "Accept" on the call and answer eagerly.

My mother starts speaking rapidly and with controlled preciseness - a sure sign of her contained excitement. "Noreen, get to St. Luke's as soon as you can. Char has gone into labor and we don't know how long it will be."

"Okay, I'm on my way," I say. "Do I need to grab anything, or—"

"No, your dad just left to pick something from their house. Just get here quickly, the contractions are close together and god knows this child might shoot out as quick as the last one."

I laugh, remembering how Ava was already crowning before my sister was even to the hospital. "Okay, I'm coming quickly." We hang up and I turn to face Mycroft. He stands now, blinking impatiently.

"I'm sorry, but my sister is in labor and I need to get to the hospital as soon as possible. Can we-no, we have to reschedule. I need to go. Shenley is—"

He finishes my sentence. "About forty minutes away. I know. Let me drive you." Reaching for the phone in his pocket, I stop him before he can call Norman to bring around the car.

"Mycroft, you don't have to. I can just call a cab, or take the train, or borrow my coworkers car—"

Offering a friendly tug of his lips, he raises the phone to his ear. "I am your friend today, aren't I?" 

I cave with a compliant nod as he speaks with Norman, calling for the car to be outside the club immediately. We exit his office, and Mycroft, like Anthea has somehow mastered taking silent steps in his fancy shoes. I try to stay quiet, but end up squeaking my shoes even louder. Mycroft turns back to me, shaking his head as if to say "please, Noreen, don't even try." I settle for the loud scuffing.

Once in the car, Norman speeds off towards Shenley. My stomach is giddy with excitement, looking forward to holding the precious bundle in my arms. Although new babies appear to be some soft skinned alien upon exiting the womb, I quite like their simplicity of eating, pooping, and sleeping.

Mycroft interrupts my baby thoughts as he clears his throat beside me, and I turn to look at him. "Continuing where we left off," he starts. "Anthony Carver—"

"Can we not talk about this psycho maniac right now, please?" I plead, holding up my hand to stop him. "I am about to have another niece or nephew, I would like to just bask in the happiness of it without being reminded that a random man follows me everywhere and tries to kill me."

Mycroft is straight lipped - obviously not happy with my putting off this conversation that I once begged for a month ago. "Fine, have it your way, _as usual_. But we will have to meet again to discuss this matter. It is urgent, Noreen. Your safety is in question." His scolding tone is serious, but I downplay it with a cheeky smile.

"And it has been for quite sometime, it seems. So what's another day? We can meet whenever and wherever you like Mycroft - a restaurant, dark alley, Buckingham Palace, or even a morgue for all I care. Just let me be excited right now for my sister and newest family member."

I don't mind the silence that ensues for the next several minutes, but it is curious coming from the man who sends me texts like his life depends on it. Come to think of it, I don't know my _friend_ I share the backseat with at all, really. Looking back on other conversations between Mycroft and I, like today's, they are situational and short—a business meeting. I first came to know Mycroft over a year ago, when he only needed to check in on you at 221B—again, for business reasons, and always so short. Back then, he barely even looked at me. Now, whenever my life is in danger, he arrives or picks up the phone to save me—more business. To be honest, I know almost nothing about the man sitting next to me except what you would let out in your grumblings about him such as: _"Mycroft is lonelier than the last animal alive of an extinct species."_ I have never spent time with Mycroft that is not on a stopwatch of sorts. This silence shows me that we don't do well in a casual setting, such as a car ride. But as his newest friend, I am determined to change that.

"When is your birthday?" I ask, addressing him with a small and polite smile. I feel bad for cutting him off about Carver - he was only trying to help.

His face is taken aback before turning bitter, like the answer to my question stings his tongue. Still, he responds. "July 9th."

"Summer baby," I comment. Though, he's not the brightest ray of sunshine. "And what year?"

He cocks an eyebrow and looks disapproving. "Why?"

I shrug innocently. "A friend must know their friend's birthday."

"1976."

I take a second to do the math. "Thirty six going on thirty seven. Still young and chipper."

"Logically, yes. Physically, no." Noting the thinning hair and slightly protruding gut, I agree silently. But being a Holmes, there is still charm and honest attraction about him. "What are you looking at?" he asks, scrutinizing me out of his peripheral.

"Nothing," I squeak, turning in my seat to look out the window. "Absolutely nothing."

The rest of the drive is somewhat more pleasant. We become more accustom to just sitting and existing next to each other and talking, as normal people do. Mycroft inquires about the flower business, and I gladly explain the season we are in, the different gardens we receive our flowers from, and all the dirty—literally dirty—business like how we try to keep the shop spotless. He is surprised when I inform him of my dropping out of school many years ago, and he is even more surprised when I admit to being content being in a room of stems and pedals for the rest of my life. I could gladly do without the logistics of paying bills and managing employees, I tell him, but that's part of running a business.

"Don't you want to do something more meaningful with your life?" he had asked just as we entered Shenley. It was starting to rain. Goodbye sun.

"What's more meaningful than giving someone flowers?" I pull my eyes away from the gray and green scenery outside the window to find him with crinkled eyebrows and no quick response coming to his lips. It's a rhetorical question, of course. "Being the one who arranges them."

Strangely, that shut him up for the rest of the ride.

When we pull in front of St. Luke's, it is raining full force. I slip on my jacket that I have brought - which is great considering I neglected to bring anything else - and face the man who has, yet again, saved my arse.

"Thank you for driving me."

"I was not the one driving, Norman was."

I rap on the divider and Norman moves it down an inch. "Thank you for driving, Norman."

His smile is radiant as his old man cheeks blush. "You are very welcome, Ms. Jacobs. Enjoy the little one—they grow so fast."

"I will. You enjoy the baby in your backseat as well," I joke, sliding my eyes to Mycroft as I speak.

His lips are pursed in distaste. "How comical," he scowls. "Now get out."

"Gladly!" I jump out of the car laughing and slam the door, jogging through the rain to the entrance. I turn around to wave goodbye to the silver car with blacked out windows, knowing damn well Mycroft is probably only sending me a glare in return.

In the hospital, I follow the signs head to the maternity ward. When I arrive to the lobby, the members of my family neglect to be anywhere. I check my phone but there are no texts about room numbers. Giving up my search, I head towards a nurse behind a desk. When I give her Isaac's last name, Moore, she points down the hall and tells me it is the fourth door on the left.

I knock lightly before heading in, but the door is thrust open for me before I can even turn the knob.

"Noreen's here, _finally,_ " mum announces. She hugs me quickly before pulling me into the room with the rest of my family. Charlotte lays on the hospital bed with Isaac squeezed next to her. A little yellow bundle is cradled in his arms, and Charlotte grasps a small olive colored hand that sticks out from it. On the left side of the room, my dad holds a dozing Ava. He smiles when I walk in, but not wanting to disturb the sleeping beauty, he opts to offer me a silent air kiss instead of a hug.

"Sis," Charlotte greets, "meet your new nephew. Freddie."

I walk over giddy with excitement and Isaac turns him towards me. Freddie's face is purple and red, and his eyes are squeezed shut. At first glance, he is a horrid sight. But after looking a bit longer, his features appear softened and I am swooning.

I position my arms, and Isaac hands Freddie over. He is sleeping peacefully, and the warmth of his body radiates over my arms and straight into my heart. No, he is not my kid, but I love him already. His nose is shiny like a cherry, and his wrinkly hands are balled into fists. Everything about him is quiet and new. I think, if a child is ever cursed with me as their mother, I will never be able to take my eyes off of their form - I will think them too perfect.

"Beautiful," I whisper. My eyes cannot leave Freddie's sleeping face. How is it my sister grew and harvested this human?

"I know," my mom comments, coming over to gaze at Freddie over my shoulder. "He takes after our side of the family."

\---

My phone vibrates, jolting me from my sleep on an armchair in the hospital room. The lights are off in the room, but a white glow bleeds from the window on the door leading out to the hallway. My parents and Ava are gone, but Charlotte still sleeps soundly in her bed and Isaac has nested on the couch. Bloody tosser.

I remember the reason I woke up in the first place, my phone, and quickly check it. The bright light blinds me and I have to dim the screen before I can read what - you'll never guess - Mycroft Holmes has texted me:

_All is well with the child?_

I smile proudly, though he cannot see, and respond: _Yes, all fingers and toes are intact. Frederick Leonardo Moore._

_We will be meeting tomorrow, over dinner. I need to finish telling you about Carver._

I frown - he couldn't even acknowledge the baby's beautiful name? My eye catches the time: 2:14am. Why is he awake? I am too exhausted to ask, knowing it only earn me a snarky answer. _Fine. But can it be around Shenley? I don't want to stray too far from the family._

_Noted. Be ready by 6._

_Where are we meeting?_

_I am picking you up from wherever you will be - the hospital, I presume? I was already your chauffeur today, and doing so tomorrow will not make a difference._

His responses issues a quiet laugh from me, and I can't resist playing into the dry humor. _So you are planning to be my friend for another day? How touching. I do, however, require a red carpet entrance to the car._

A few second pass, and then: _I'm starting to think my friendship to you is nothing but an exchange of goods._

_Marvelous deduction, Mycroft. See you at 6._

With that, I turn my phone on silent and fall back asleep, entering my restful, dreamless state once more.

_\---_

_The next day_

I happen to be at my parents' house instead of the hospital when Mycroft pulls outside the curb. I didn't bother telling him my updated location, figuring that he would know somehow. And was I not right?

When I grab my coat and lace up my shoes, my dad comes out of the kitchen where he was making scones for my sister and her family. He glances out the window at the fancy vehicle on the curb and asks, "Who's picking you up? The queen?"

"Basically," I say, pecking his cheek and jogging out the door. I refrained from informing my parents of this meeting, not wanting to worry them by saying that some government fool was going to tell me, what I can only guess, is more scary information about my attacker. Instead, I opted with "a friend is picking me up so we can chat." And because Mycroft's windows are tinted, they won't know any different.

As I get into the car and shut the door, Mycroft looks out the window past me. "Your father," he states, clearing his throat as a sign to Norman to drive off.

"Yes," is all I respond, and the ride begins. Mycroft shares the backseat with me in a navy suit - very dapper, down to the last button and cuff. His left hand rests on his lap, long fingers splayed out with light hairs dotting his knuckles. His right elbow lays on the armrest of the door, propping his hand up as it folds under his jaw in a philosopher's contemplation. He is either very concentrated, or very bored. I hope the first, since it would be very rude of him to claim boredom when he is the one who initiated this ordeal.

"Have you ever heard of Schrödinger's Cat?" 

Mycroft's out-of-nowhere question strikes me as odd, and the sudden sound of his voice causes me to jump. The elder Holmes has never asked me if I know anything, which I presume is because he thinks I know nothing. I weigh my odds. Do I lie and say yes, hoping to bluff my knowledge and impress him? Or do I tell the truth and prove his expectations true that I am as mindless as he believes me to be? Why could he not just ask a simple question, like about my new nephew? He still hasn't even inquired about a picture.

"No, I have not." I have settled with honesty considering there is no need to impress him.

His response surprises me: "Good. Much of the general public believe they understand what it means, but it has been twisted and conformed for the human's purpose of questioning their own existence in moments of existential crisis." He pauses, and I turn to look at him as he continues. "Schrödinger was only giving an example of how absurd interpretations of quantum physics can become if not rightly understood. Therefore, we must observe in order to understand how particles behave, otherwise there is an infinite possibility of what one could be doing."

Something in my mind clicks back to references in a physics class from secondary school. "Wait, is this thing about the cat is neither dead or alive until you open the box?"

Mycroft turns his head toward me, a smirk on his lips. "I see you are a part of the general public I just referenced."

"If you mean general education offered in schools, yes." I offer a cheeky grin. "Why are you giving me a science lesson today, Mycroft? I almost prefer the silence."

"Just picking your brain. I am not curious about your opinion on particles and states, but I do have one question: would you open the box with the cat in it? Knowing it may very well be dead?"

"Of course," I reply. Instantly, his whole body shifts towards me a bit more. His eyes are trained on me, waiting for my explanation. "How could I not want to find out? Chances are, the cat would be dead anyway."

"But there's a chance it's not."

"Well we won't know until we open the box and observe." I wink, hoping to have tripped him up in his own string of questions.

He nods in response, neither impressed nor disappointed in my words. He is just nothing. We have not been driving long from my parent's home, but now appear to be in a smaller town that is clearly not Shenley. The sun is out again, preserving what little warmth the english countryside provided us with today. We pull to a stop outside a place called The Old Guinea, a pizzeria. The image of Mycroft attempting to eat pizza creeps into my mind and I stifle a laugh - he is far too prim and proper to eat with his hands.

Mycroft exits the vehicle, and I follow, thanking Norman on my way out. "How did you find this place?" I ask Mycroft before stepping through the door he holds open for me.

"Norman said he took his wife here once. There were not many other choices, to be honest."

It is warmly lit inside the pub, and Mycroft alerts the host of a reservation in the name of "Mr. Holmes". Fancy pants.

We are seated at a table near a long, floor to ceiling window that reveals distant rolling hills, outdoor seating, and a World War II pillbox. Many people surround us, and Mycroft stands out in his three piece suit and shiny shoes. I, on the other hand, look like any other local in my jeans and jumper. A waiter comes and attempts to take our order before I even glance at the menu. Without giving me a moment to utter an apology and ask for more time, Mycroft goes ahead and orders us wine. A whole damn bottle.

"We'll take a bottle of St. Émilion, but give us time for food."

The waiter nods, leaving me gaping at Mycroft. "Mycroft, that bottle of wine is £30. And you really don't strike me a keen drinker of red."

"Correct. I prefer white, or a strong whiskey. But I know you are a fan." He smiles triumphantly at me. I open my mouth to protest, and ask how he knows that, but he puts a hand up to stop me. "Noreen, I am your friend today. Allow me to treat you to dinner and a drink, for I may not be so disposed to do so tomorrow, or any other time."

"Okay," I breathe, though it still doesn't feel right. My mind jumps to yesterday's texting event where Mycroft accused me of only being his friend for his goods.

"Something still troubles you," he states. He is perusing through the menu, not even looking at me, and I realize my nervousness must be blatantly obvious in some way.

"I just—How do I repay you for everything?" I ask, absentmindedly twirling the silverware that have been placed on the table. Mycroft lifts his eyes to watch my hands, then goes back to his menu.

"Repayment is not necessary."

"But the therapy sessions, the saving my life, the dinner—it is piling up, Mycroft."

He now takes time to eye me, setting down his menu and scooting his chair in closer to the table as a person scoots by behind him. "You will not be indebted to me, Noreen." I frown and he sighs. "Fine. When I ask you to do something, someday in the future, you must listen and obey. No questions."

"What is this thing that I must do?" I ask, leaning forward in interest.

He smirks. "Well I don't know yet. That's your favor to me though, to say yes whenever I do ask. I'm sure your timely compliance will pay me back for everything."

I narrow my eyes at him. "I feel like I don't know what I'm saying yes to right now, but I accept anyways. Only because I feel bad and don't want you to think of me as a moocher."

"Well I'll have you know I don't think of you at all," he retorts. My jaw drops I am left dumbfounded. On the other hand, he appears to be enjoying himself as the waiter stops at our table. Mycroft is lucky - I was about to slap the smirk off his face. 

The young waiter opens the bottle, lets it breathe, then pours a bit into each of our glasses, and finally sets it down on the table for us to continually enjoy. "Ready to order?" he asks. My eyes widen as I realize I still have not looked at the menu. I panic and search the list while I hear Mycroft order a Mozzarella Di Bufala salad. Bleh. I order a pizza with chicken, sun dried tomatoes, mozzarella, and spinach on it. When the waiter walks away, I lift my glass and bring the wine to my lips. It's fruity and whole, filling my mouth and warming my gullet as it goes down. Mycroft follows suit, making a disgusted face as he takes a sip of his, and shaking his head to rid the taste.

"Well, I suppose we should continue our conversation. No one else in your family is going to have another baby today, right?" He cocks an eyebrow as he says it, and I wonder if the wine has already turned on his playfulness.

I giggle in my glass as I try to take slow, small sips. But damn, it is delicious. Shaking my head in response, he wets his lips and begins.

"Anthony Carver," he says, eyes turning the color of a storm. "As I said, excellent marksman for the British Armed Forces, but discharged for mental reasons. Began working for Moriarty sometime after, but it's still unknown when exactly. He was..." Mycroft pauses and shifts in his seat, like he is uncomfortable. "He was assigned as the sniper that would shoot you if my brother didn't jump from St. Bart's."

I blink. I knew why you had jumped, but I had not thought about the reason in quite sometime - to save us, your loved ones. I was still hooked on the fact that you were even gone.

"Go on," I say, my voice raspy. Another sip of wine should help with that.

"Obviously, he never finished the job. But during the time he was following you, he, well, seems to have become quite obsessed with you. Intent on carrying out the mission."

"What?" I ask. I heard what Mycroft said, I understood what Mycroft said, but it still didn't make any sense.

Mycroft's eyes turn darker as he says the next part: "He has taken a liking to you, Noreen, and he intends to finish the job. To kill you."

"How do you even know all of this?" I am swirling the wine around in my glass mindlessly, and I watch Mycroft's eyes follow its motion.

"As you know, Lestrade's cops could not stop Carver last month when he followed you to London. But the next day, he sent a letter to the Yard, detailing exactly what I just told you. He told us he wants to kill you."

"No one informed me of this," I bite. Mycroft takes in my clenched jaw, then reaches for his own wine glass timidly.

"I know."

"So now what?"

Mycroft shrugs.

My calm demeanor breaks momentarily. "Let me get this straight: this man told you he will kill me? And why he wants to kill me? And that's all you know. You can't find out any more about him? Or even find out where he is? I thought you were the damn government, Mycroft." My voices harshness is diminished a bit by the wine, but he still feels the force as he leans back from the table, a frown etched in his features.

He nods, shamefully, as he traces his finger around the top of his glass. "Rest assured I remain the driving force of the government, but understand that Moriarty was able to erase all information on this man and keep him underground for years. Moriarty may be dead, but his circle still operates. Carver could be lying low with his other colleagues, though we have reason to believe he is acting alone in hunting you."

" _Hunting_ ," I exclaim, as Mycroft refills my wine glass, refusing to meet my eyes. "Well I'm glad this is just sport to you."

"It's not," he snaps, glaring at me angrily. "I will continue taking every precaution to keep you and your family safe. The next time he shows, we will be ready and he will be caught. Maybe even caught alive, if he is lucky."

The wine has really started to affect me, and I feel the familiar ease of tension in my shoulders and inhibition. Because of that, I decide it is time to stop talking about this Carver fellow. It's really bringing down my mood. "You know, I have never actually seen one of these so called 'agents' you have placed outside mine and my family's dwelling," I say. If Mycroft is bothered by my change of subject, he does not show it.

"Good, they are doing their job then." At that, the waiter brings over our food and our conversation ceases. What else is there to say? I am being hunted. But that worry falls away. The evening at the pub passes in a daze as the wine flows through my brains. Hell, I even finish Mycroft's half of the bottle.

After making it back into car, which Mycroft grudgingly guided me toward, I tap on the separation between us and Norman. He winds the back down, addressing me through the rear view mirror.

"Yes, Ms. Jacobs?"

"That was a lovely dining recommendation. Thank you, Norman." I try to stop my words from slurring a bit, but they come out a bit sloppy.

"My pleasure, ma'am," he responds, tipping his head and rolling back up the separation before kicking it into drive and speeding us home.

I turn to Mycroft who is already eyeing me with... curiosity? I am unsure, but he is eyeing me with something. On a scale of 1-10, my deduction skills are currently at a negative 5, so I give up with guessing what he is thinking.

"Why do you require he keep the separation up?" I ask.

Mycroft scoffs. "Norman is quite the gossiper."

"Suuuuurrre," I respond, not believing him and leaning back into the crisp leather seats. Night flies by my window, spotted with lights hanging outside country cottages. "You just like to keep people out, don't you? From knowing you, or your business?"

I steal another glance at him and, good god, he has turned to ice. I knew I would trespassing into dangerous territory by even alluding to any of his social anxieties and troubles, but I hoped the wine might help. I mean, it's helped me to be relaxed enough to ask.

"You're no fun," I pout when he doesn't respond. He is still staring at me, gray eyes diving deep into my soul. I break our gaze and look back out the window. I feel his eyes linger on me for moments longer, but they eventually fall away. The car remains silent the short drive home. I don't know if I have said something to force him into not speaking to me, other than implying he shuts people out. But this feels loads different than the playfulness and enjoyment of the restaurant. The air is shifted. We pull up to my parents' before I can articulate what it is exactly that has gone wrong. Why is he so sensitive about what I've asked?

"Well, this is me," I announce, as if he does not already know this. He refuses to look at me, but nods with his eyes trained out his own window. Maybe I am too drunk to feel the full force of his cold demeanor, the way his body has purposefully pulled away from mine. Closed up. "Thank you again for the dinner, and everything else." Another wordless nod. I put my hand on the door handle, ready to push my way out. But the wine pushes me to try again, to say something else. "I will pay you back with that favor, one day. No questions, no complaints."

He turns his head and I expect to see his eyes settle on me, but they focus on somewhere just off my right shoulder. "Carver probably won't try another attack for sometime. But be vigilant, Noreen. This man is dangerous."

I hop out of the car quickly, slamming the door and running up the steps. The mention of Carver's name sends shivers down the my spine and spooks me to the core. In reality, I had forgotten about that whole mess during the distraction of dinner and conversation. But I guess that's why Mycroft was my friend: to remind me of reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey! I'm back, people. 
> 
> Good gosh - this week was soooo long. Grading was a pain in the butt. But thankfully, the term is over! No classes (to take, or teach) for three weeks! I shall take advantage as write as much as I can (both this fanfiction, and my thesis).
> 
> Thanks to you who have stuck with this story and continue to read! It is such a joy to write, and I really love all the comments. 
> 
> Okay - I am going to crack open a beer and watch a rom-com with the husband. I will update again soon! I hope you all are doing well. Do not forget to take a breather from whatever you are working on to just take a walk, read, or enjoy yourself in whatever way you prefer. It's tiring to be human!
> 
> I do have one question, if you would please answer: What are your thoughts of Noreen and Mycroft? What are your thoughts of Noreen and Sherlock? I think you can guess where this story is heading (but don't guess too much!), so I just want to hear what y'all are thinking. I love dialoguing about this!
> 
> Cheers!
> 
> (P.S. I just started watching "The Crown" and I love it!)


	7. Seven Months More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not play football (for Americans, I am referring to soccer) so my knowledge and terms are limited!

_Seven months after_  
  


Legs move swiftly beneath me, I ignore the aching pain in my side. I manage to continue running forward on the fake grass, dribbling the ball between my feet as I wait for a teammate to be open. Or better yet, for it to just be the goalie and I in a stand off. "Man on," someone yells breathlessly from behind me. Swerving to the left and slowing back, I hope whoever is on my tail goes running past. On cue, I feel a rush of wind, then another howl of voices.

"Ball!" "Jacobs!" "Look to Braekis!" "I'm open!" "On left!"

Turning to my right, I slip the beneath my left foot as I spot Scavey wide open. Another body pushes against mine, dressed in red jersey. In a blaze of instict, I kick the ball in a semicircle around my foot, slicing and dicing between the opponent's cleat that tries to catch it for the moments it teases out of my grasp. When they go a little far to my left, I kick forward right and watch it go soaring towards Scavey who, thanks the heavens, manages to stay open.

"BOOT IT!" My yell comes before the ball can even connect with her foot. Slow motion ensues as the ball beats against her chest, landing gently on the ground. Her shoe anchors a deep shot into the left pocket. The goalie is so close, their fingertips grazing the edge of the ball, but it soars past into the left of the net. Our small cheers erupt and we quickly break into formation, dashing back into place and waiting for the women in red to come rushing towards us with heated anger. So far, the score has been a solid 0-0. That is, until now.

A whistle sounds, signaling a fifteen minute break. My shoulders slump, both from tiredness and disappointment: the rush of us scoring filled me with renewed energy that had escaped me the last two matches. However, the chance to chug water and take a breather is not to be rejected. I stroll across the field towards the piles of bags and water bottles from both of the teams, women standing and sweating as they quench an unquenchable thirst - we are parched for a win.

"Great assist, Jacobs." Amy Braekis waltzes over on her way to our supplies, her face as red and crazy as her hair. "Scavey hasn't scored for a few matches now, so she appreciates the chance."

"I couldn't pass up the clear pass."

"Get open in this next half and I'll send it your way."

"Only if I'm open - I'm still a little rusty."

"You've been saying that for two months now. I think you've gotten back into the swing of things enough, you can handle the ball. Just get open."

I nod in agreement, though nervousness stabs at my stomach. Braekis starts talking about needing a massage from her husband, but my thoughts linger elsewhere. Football has not been on my agenda since high school. But, thanks to Parker's connections, she set me up with Amy Braekis, captain of the Aged Cheese recreational women's team, back in April. We only practice two times a week, and games are once a week on Sunday evenings. Truthfully, the exercise and socializing has done, as Dr. Davies puts it, _wonders_ for me. Running freely down the field has provided me a clear mind, something lacking since you.

Sometimes I wonder, during a moments break at practice while Braekis yells at a teammate about not hustling, if you were still here would you come watch? Would you sit in the stands in your long black coat and curly black hair, commenting on how completely useless this sport is? God, I hope so. What I wouldn't give for some sort of rude deduction about the pointlessness of anyone running in shorts down a field and kicking a ball between their feet.

I join the rest of my team as they nurse their water bottles. Some are sitting on the ground, others stand, and others kneel, but in all cases we are united with the cheap, black penny jerseys we don. We are quite a diverse group. Because this is a 30+ division (for once I am thankful to be the age I am), it is _very_ recreational. I am the youngest one here, besides Brenda Silva, who is only 32. Other than that, most of the women range from 35-48. But don't let the age fool you - they can kick serious arse. Braekis singlehandedly tripped me up and pin me down once when I joked she needed help crossing the street; never had a 43 year old woman been so fierce.

We are a small, consolidated group, not even enough teammates for subs. But nearly every team in our division is like that, and we are all on good speaking terms. Occasionally we hop around pubs for a drink, or go watch a movie. Having new friends is nice. Braekis is the teammate I know best, however she knows nothing about you, unless Parker has mentioned something. My teammates know I own a flower shop, that I would drink a flat white every day if I could, and that anything with cashews or pecans in it will cause me to vomit. But one cannot randomly bring up the topic of their dead boyfriend who happened to the be the detective that jumped from the roof last November. Somehow, I still feel this is a crucial part of who I am. You, the one my thoughts still jump around, you are part of who I am. These women, though they have shared a stall with me while I urinate drunk, and have slapped my butt multiple times on the field, have not scratched the surface of Noreen Jacobs—if anything, they have merely _slapped_ the surface.

Dr. Davies reports that my progress is going well, whatever the hell that means. The fact I have not woken up or gone to bed crying for well over a month now is somehow a breakthrough. The real battle is reminding myself that this giving up of distraught emotion over you is not giving up at all: I will always remember you, Sherlock. My determination to keep the memories of us safe in my mind, never let them get blurry, is a promise I plan to keep. I do not need to cry over your loss anymore—I have cried enough. Other thoughts - present, real life matters - must take up more brain space: work, football, Mrs. Hudson, John, my family, Parker and Ellis—people who are still here. You are not here. My attention, though grudgingly shifted in these last seven months back to these earthlings, will always default to you.

"Ready, Jacobs?" A hand appears in front of my face, breaking me from the thoughts of you. I take the hand, which belongs to Silva - I hadn't even realized I sat down. Again, Sherlock, my presence is requested by those who are here, and I should comply. There is no doubt you will be on my mind again after this game - when I am getting ready for bed, when I drink my morning tea - but for now, as you would say, "the game is afoot."

"Ready as ever," I gratefully accept her hand and hop to my feet, wiping my bum clear of any turf pieces that have stuck. 

\---

The score is tied now, 2-2. Frita Wagner scored one for us, then other team clapped back and scored twice in a row. There are approximately four minutes left in the game, but there is no time to dwell. A woman in red rushes towards me, zigging and zagging on her approach with ball between the feet. My body swings to the right, sticking my foot and making contact with the ball. We clash, gently, and the ball is loose from her grip. Silva grabs it, then make a quick pass to Romero. My feet start running, my head turned behind my shoulder as I watch the passing and dribbling of my teammates. I near the goal, Braekis' words lingering in the back of my mind: _get open._

A red jersey stays close to me in front and back as Silva dribbles down the field. Braekis is open to her right. Silva also notices so she steps back, flips the ball up, and lands it to a sprinting Braekis. The wild redhead and I lock eyes. Both of the red jerseys have abandoned me momentarily. Braekis knows this, and so do I. She kicks. The balls falls towards me, and I bring up my knee to meet it. I pop it off, let it land, and kick the fucking shit out of it towards the goal.

Slow motion ensues, as per dramatic movie material. The ball glides, all eyes on its spinning form. It is turning, twirling, flying towards the net. My fist clenches, willing it a little to the left and into the net.

It does not follow directions.

Instead, it bounces off the plastic siding of the goal, flying in the opposite direction and out of bounds.

The whistle sounds.

The game is done.

Splaying my hands on my knees as I try to catch my breath, I also bend over to hide my embarrassment. You know how some people were created to take those game winning shots? I am not one of those people. In that slow motion moment, there was a glimmer I might be, but the _Clink!_ of the ball against the goal stings me shamefully. An early retirement might be something to consider.

"Happens to the best of us," Braekis insists, jogging over and pulling me up out of my pouting position. "You're still rusty, remember?" Her cheeky grin relieves my uneasiness as the rest of the team jogs over to pat me on the back (and bum), offer hugs, and give high fives.

"At least we tied," grumbles Silva. I will have to buy her numerous amounts of the protein bars she scarfs down after games until she can forgive me.

"I need to practice my aim next week." Groaning, I throw my head back in frustration. The sky is a beautiful orange and blue color, and there is a hint of your eyes in—

"Yeah, too bad you didn't get to impress your boyfriend," mentions Romero. It takes a second to register she is addressing me. My head snaps towards her to find many of my other teammates also glancing over their shoulders to a small set of bleachers by our bags. Automatically, my thoughts go to you, but hope is shattered instantly. This is not the Bible, Noreen.

Although he is far across the field, the receding hair line, slim suit, and stoic stance is clearly visible: Mycroft. How long has he been here? There are families and significant others mulling around, but he sticks out like a sore thumb. Because it's June, the sun is out and warmer than usual today, but he dresses like he is attending a court proceeding rather than a football game. "Definitely not my boyfriend," I correct, raising my eyebrows. "Just a friend. And how did you even know I knew him?" My cheeks burn, but not for any reason at all other than someone assuming I am romantically involved with a man who looks like he was born in that suit, and will be buried in it. Would it kill him to wear a plain jumper or some jeans?

"We all know what each other's partners look like, and no one has lay claim to him," explains Romero, as if its obvious I am the second choice. What about the other team?

"And he was watching you play, not anyone else" adds in Sawyer. _No one fucking asked you_ is what I would like to say to Sawyer, but I settle for a silent, complicit nod - the fault of a mistaken observation is not hers. My team decides to walk and offer "good job"s to the other women on the red team, the Aged Beauts. Braekis puts an arm around my shoulder as we make our way towards the other team. As I sit down and switch my cleats for trainers, I feel his eyes on me. However, I continue chit chatting with some of the women about the possibility of celebrating our tie with drinks, deciding that he can wait a little longer. After grabbing my bag and standing, I approach the tall man who stands patiently, away from everyone else, holding an umbrella.

"You really thought it would rain today?" I point towards the sky, an amused smirk coloring my features. Surprisingly, a similar look comes over his features.

"You really thought you would make that goal? The geometry was all off. You really should think about relearning angles."

Ignoring his jab, which cuts a little deep, I choose to interrogate his presence. "How did you even know I was playing today? Or at all? I don't remember telling you anything about my interest in football."

He sticks his nose in the air, gazing over my shoulder at my teammates and their families. "A friend informed me," he replies, smiling guardedly when he meets my eyes. While normally they are absent of emotion, even from a distance of three feet I notice there is something like lightning strikes lighting them up.

"You don't have friends." Crossing my arms, I raise an eyebrow. 

Something is fishy here. Now his smile is gone - a sneer has taken its place. And still, there is some kind of storm brewing behind his look, but he quells it well. "Fine. An _acquaintance_ told me."

"Does this _acquaintance_ happen to be one of your agents assigned to watch over me and report back to you my every movement?"

His silence and clenched jaw is answer enough. Sighing, I make a conscious decision to be civil. My bad mood only stems from the fact I missed the game winning shot, and it's best I do not take it out on the only person who has ever come to any of my matches. At least he cared enough to show up, even without a proper invitation. "Thank you for coming to watch." My voice is sweet, quieter and gentler. "I realize your Sunday may be well spent elsewhere, outside of this football field."

He scoffs, and his fingers tap quickly on the handle of his umbrella. The way he is studying the ground makes me think there is a proposition, some sort of business to deal with, and he is afraid to tell me. Perhaps it has to do with Carver. My skin tingles. "I imagine you are hungry," he starts, trailing off and pausing. He inspects my face, which I try to clear of any emotion. Just spit it out, man! Working his face into a kind of peace offering, he continues. "Would you like you to go eat somewhere? Your choice, my treat. We have not had the pleasure of catching up since Shenley. I may not know much about friendship, but I believe spending time together is of great importance."

I try to hide my surprise at his invite. He's not wrong - besides the one text he sent two weeks ago asking about little Freddie's wellbeing, I have not heard from Mycroft, and he has not heard from me, for quite sometime. My travels to Shenley have been more frequent, and when Max caught a horrible strain of the flu, I was the one to cover his shifts. Of course, playing football and spending time with the team also took up a significant amount of time. I had not forgotten about Mycroft - how could I? The bugger is completely unforgettable. But after the ending of our last meeting, it seemed we stood on shaky ground. He had been so cold in the car, for no apparent reason. All I knew is that I should never bring up his loneliness again as I did that night. Even though I just did right now when I outright said he has no friends. Oh well. The man still offered to take me out. And he even called it a friendship. Of course, I considered him my friend but it seemed the label was not mutual, thus my surprise deepened

"Jacobs, you coming out with us?" Swiveling my head away from the suited man, I see Silva standing with her bag over her shoulder, a little baby bouncing on her hip. Even without looking at Mycroft, I know is waiting to hear my response. He does not speak up, nor interject to inform Silva that he will taking me out and not her. He lets me decide for myself, or at least I think so. Does he already know I will say yes? I miss my bitter friend, though I will never share those words with him. As if I can feel the tightening of his hand on the umbrella, and the hard look he is probably giving the ground, I answer Silva before I can change my mind.

"Sorry, Silva, not this time. I'll catch up with you lot next week."

"Oh, okay." After eyeing Mycroft, she gives me a suggestive side eye before stalking back to our group. Before she, or anyone else, can make an assuming comment, I turn back to Mycroft and motion for him to follow me towards the exit of the field. As predicted, he is looking anywhere but at me when I turned back around. But he follows suit, catching up to me so we walk side by side. Our steps are almost in sync, long strides matching one another. We do not speak about my acceptance of this shared meal, but it's fine by me, and probably fine by him as well.

Peering at my watch, it's 5:27pm. Now that the sweat on my face and body has dried, I feel chilled and ready for a stream of hot water to wash over me. "Before we go out, I need to go home and shower. Do you want to meet up again in about an hour?"

We stop on the sidewalk in the parking lot and face each other. He stands a mere three or four inches above me, and the far off look in his eyes tell me he is contemplating something, still. What? I have no clue. The man really is a mystery. He readies himself to speak, drawing his mouth into an _almost_ sincere smile. "I'll accompany you to your flat. I don't mind waiting." I cannot hide my questioning look. He wants to wait in my small, drabby living room while I shower? My suspicion is obvious, and he speaks again. "Really, Noreen, I don't mind. The driver is already bringing the car around. We'll take you home, you can wash away your.. _sweat_ , and then we'll go out." His smile is sweet, a sweetness that looks foreign on his face. He is being nice. And thoughtful? Really, he's just being odd. I purse my lips, rolling thoughts around in my head. There can be only one reason he is acting so good-natured. 

"You must really miss me." Before I finish speaking, he is already shaking his head in protest.

"I simply am thinking in efficient terms. If I don't drive you home, you will have to take a cab, bus, or the tube. Knowing you, you may even walk. Thus, me driving you will cut that time in half or more because there will be no need to navigate public transport, nor speed through the mass of slow humans on the sidewalk. Then, after you clean up, I will already be waiting to take you the destination of your choice. Besides, you just played a game of football and are presumably hungry. The sooner we get you some food, the better. Especially before you turn into some sort of grouch and I am left to deal with your mood." The lasting and bored-like scowl on his face almost has me convinced of his "doing this for the sake of efficiency act."

But wow, really, I have never heard of a more thought out excuse. He physically and emotionally cannot just admit he misses me? The overthinking he has done over this interaction for, probably sometime, is astonishing. Instead of bringing up the obviousness of his fondness towards me and embarrassing the poor man, who obviously is dying for some sort of social interaction with a friendly figure, I give in.

"Okay, you've convinced me."

"Good," he remarks. "Besides, the sooner you get out of those sweaty shorts and shirt, the better. It's quite repulsive."

I look down at my half naked legs that are scuffed from the turf. Thankfully my shorts are black, so no stains are visible. The rest of my attire is speckled with wrinkles and marks of use. I try to take a whiff of my pits, but I decide that's best to just leave untouched. When I glance up, his eyebrows and nose are scrunched up in distaste. "Sorry, Mycroft. Next time, I'll make sure to just walk down the field so that my sweat doesn't disturb you so much."

"Better yet, next time make the goal." Before I can retort, Norman pulls the dark gray car around, and Mycroft turns to open the door. He stumbles into the backseat and I follow. The familiar smell of clean and crisp leather hits my nostrils, and I hope it masks whatever odor I may be excreting. But I mean, I offered to take the public transit.

Thankfully, the field is not far from my flat. Mycroft and I exchange no conversation during this time. His eyes are concentrated out the window, fingers tapping at his knee. Whereas before I thought of Mycroft as a stoic, solid figure, I now see that he fidgets just as everyone else. Whether this is a sign of nervousness or anxiety, I know not. But I figure he is thinking. You were always thinking. One time, when I asked if you could just shut your brain off for a moment, you told me is was impossible, and I had asked why.

_We were sitting criss cross on the floor of 221B. You had tried practicing some sort of meditation zen thing, saying that it was a new entrance to your mind palace you had created. I was pretending to read a book on the couch, but really my eyes had only been trained on you. Eventually I could not resist myself and I plopped down in front of you, mimicking the fold of your legs. Our knees bumped and touched under our trousers as I settled down, and your eyes remained closed; I left mine open so I could trace your features._

_I started at the crown of your head, moving around each curl that stuck out, and down your face. When I reached your lips, again, I could not stop myself. Leaning forward, I inched slowly and quietly towards you. I was centimeters away, cocking my head to the side so our noses wouldn't bump, and_ _then your eyelashes fluttered, blue eyes opening up and stopping me in my path._

_"What. Are. You. Doing." Your voice was clipped, every word annunciated with disapproval. We were still so close, our breath commingling in the small space between us._

_I looked at you with innocent eyes. "I was going to kiss you, Sherlock."_

_"But I'm thinking right now, Noreen. No kissing allowed."_

_"Well stop thinking."_

_"What?" you asked incredulously, actually laughing at my statement like I was crazy. Peppermint breath feathered my face._

_"Turn your brain off, Sherlock. Just stop thinking so you can kiss me, Just this once!" I was not one to whine, but you were always doing it. A taste of your own medicine might do you some good._

_"That's impossible."_

_"Why?"_

_You shook your head and rolled your eyes, as if what I was asking was actually stupid. Which would not actually surprise me if you thought that. You sighed. "Thinking for me is like breathing for you: if I stop, I die. Do you really want me to die?"_

_I groaned, finally leaning back. "I just wanted to kiss my boyfriend. Why must everything turn into a melodramatic scolding?"_

_"And I wanted to be unbothered, but here we are. Now, close your eyes and meditate or else I'll have no choice but to call John over and bore you with a story that has no humor and no point to it."_

_"I can hear you, Sherlock!" John yelled from the kitchen. He was baking something for dinner, for the three of us and Mrs. Hudson._

_Clenching my jaw, I gave in and shut my eyes. My mind began to wander: how did the shop do today? Sheryl asked to switch days with me next week. I'll have to change my dentist appointment. Gosh, I hate making those calls. The calls are more painful than the actual visit to the dentist. There should be some sort of online scheduling tool. I wonder if Charlotte is doing okay? She never called me back yesterday after I left a voicemail. Isaac is such a git. He probably doesn't even want her to call me back. Ava's birthday is coming up. I wonder what she wants? If I get her jammies I'll have to—"_

_A warmth, a soft and gentle warmth, met my lips. The warmth moved slightly, enveloping and overlapping my lips for quite sometime. I dared to open my eyes, but closed them quickly when pale skin covered my vision, black curls tickling my eyebrow. Holding back so as not to grab the sides of his face and bring all of him closer, I settled to cling only to the feeling, the spark, the lo..._

_It ended._

_I probably required a shock blanket. Or an electric shock. Something to bring my back to life - perhaps another kiss? I licked my tongue over my lips, trying to catch the rest of your taste. My eyes popped open, but it was like you had not even moved since the last time I looked at you. You remained in the same position, eyes shut and legs crossed. Your face blank and calm, but still so kissable._

_"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," I whisper, breathless. Why had you never kissed me like that before? When I was ready? When I could consciously soak in every single look and touch as you leaned into me._

_"Shh, I'm thinking." Again, your features stayed unchanged. Stony. Deep in contemplation._

_"I'm pretty you were doing some other kind of verb just now," I accused under my breath. Upon my response, you broke into a smile as your eyes remain shut._

_"I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about." The smile remained, cheekbones sharp and teasing. You enjoyed this, making me crazy._

_And now I knew you enjoyed kissing me._

\---

The car pulls up to the curb outside of my building. As planned, Mycroft follows me as I exit the vehicle, enter the front door of my flat, and climb the stairs to the second floor. Reaching into my bag for keys, I fumble to get them into the lock. Knowing he is watching only causes me to stumble more, especially since the silence from the car ride has carried on till now. On the drive here we remained in separate thoughts, different worlds. 

When I can finally turn the lock, we enter into my domain. "Welcome to my home." I throw my bag on the ground, and set my keys on the counter. Then I remember: he has been here before. Right after you died, when he dragged me from my home to Dr. Davies. "But you have already been in here."

"Yes," he replies. He has brought the umbrella with him, and he leans on it while his eyes travel around my cave. My flat is small, and it does not take long for him to deduce everything. Instead of rattling some sort of personal analysis about me, he suggests I carry on. "You should get to.. cleaning up." The nodding of his head is urgent, and I wonder if maybe he really is thinking solely in efficient terms.

"Let me start some tea for you." I walk to the stove and fill the kettle that sits on a burner. Because I have a plethora of flavors, I set them all out, unsure what his favorite is. Searching the cupboards for a mug, I pull one with an image of a sailboat on water. It is faded from years of use—my own favorite. "If you need anything, feel free to the raid the cupboards." My offer only earns a nod. "Do you need to use the bathroom before I—"

"No." He is standing next to the couch, reading his phone with concentration. He huffs, frustrated by something. 

"Okay, well, you can sit down if you'd like." I gesture to the mismatched couch and armchair. Mycroft continues standing, slipping the phone back into his coat pocket and tapping his umbrella handle. He is still distracted by something, like in the car, and stares off somewhere in space. While his focus is elsewhere, I take a moment to watch him. He is out of place in my clashing home. Nothing I own is a complete set: plates and silverware are donations from family, towels that have been around for years, magnets on the fridge are as random as the decorative pillows I have on the couch. Also, the flowers and plants around my flat look natural, overgrown. But that's how I prefer them. On the other hand, Mycroft is as clean cut as a person can come - literally, he seems to have stepped straight out of a men's fashion magazine.

Instead of breaking his concentration with an unnecessary announcement that I will begin showering, I just leave and head to my room. Considering Mycroft will most definitely see me if I try to tiptoe from the bathroom my bedroom in a towel, I grab clothes to bring with me. But what to wear? I glance out my bedroom door and Mycroft is staring out my kitchen window now, waiting for the water to heat in the teapot, I presume. There is nothing I own that matches his style, but I do have a dress. It is casual, cream, short. With some nice shoes, it will at least look better than my work jeans, or any of my "going out" clothes I wear with Ellis and Parker; those seem too young now, for Mycroft at least. Normally, I don't pay much attention to how I look, but Mr. Crombie out there has instigated some kind of desire to at least try, like he does.

Once I spot some clean undergarments, I slip into the bathroom and undress quickly. My clothes still stick to me, but the second I step into the hot water, the remnants of the game melt away. I wash out all the dirty pockets and crevices, lathering a bar of cucumber soap all over me. What does Mycroft think of my couch? Will he turn on the TV? I am not used to many people in my flat. The settled dust and strewn knickknacks on the coffee table may cause a sort of ruckus from him. His own home was probably prim and proper—books stacked neatly, dusted shelves, a cozy set of armchairs and couches without holes or stains. While my flat was decorated in a mismatch of reds and yellows, his was probably a dismal gray. Like his eyes. Flat and unmoving. Cold. Not a place to get cozy. I stop myself, because imagining Mycroft's home is not what I should be doing while I shower. My thoughts circle back to the match. What position was my foot in when I kicked the ball, maybe next time I should position it a little more outward, allowing for a nice pocket to be formed...

Eventually I exit the shower, thoughts of football having completely taken over. My hair is thankful for the diffuser I set to it, allowing the curls pop out. My face remains blank—mascara or any sort of add-on seems too much. I apply deodorant, some lotion, then dress quickly. Thankfully, after checking in the mirror, I am at peace when I know the line of my knickers is undetectable. The dress is flowy, standing out bright against my tan legs. I bundle up my clothes and hang my towel up over the rack. Time has passed, though I am not sure how long, but when I exit the bathroom I glance towards the living room and find Mycroft sitting on the couch, ankles crossed, reading the first few pages of the novel I currently am on. It is another Atwood work - I am going through bit of an Atwood craze.

He must feel my gaze because he addresses me while still scanning the pages. "A woman goes into the Canadian wilderness looking for her potentially crazed father?"

"It is quite the read. I'll let you borrow it when I finish."

"No need. I already know what happens," he replies, shutting the book and placing it back on the coffee table.

My face is unimpressed. "Of course you do. Can you ever not deduce something?" I stalk off to my room to drop my dirty clothes off.

Failing to hear the footsteps following me from behind, I almost scream when he speaks in the entryway of my bedroom door. "I just skimmed the last several chapters and it told me everything I needed to know - no deductions needed. Sometimes one must work smarter, not harder." I choose not to reply while I dump my clothes in the hamper, but he continues. "That's not even her most popular or well liked novel, so I'm not sure why you would read it." Now I turn to face him. He is leaning against the doorframe, hands in pockets. Thankfully my room is clean and sparse of any clutter, but when his eyes travel around the four walls, to my bedside table with miscellaneous rings and book lights and receipts, and then to my queen bed decorated in white sheets and a comforter, I feel naked, like I am wearing no dress at all.

"Why does it matter if it's popular or not? All of her books are important, whether or not they are loved by the public."

"I just thought you would be into the fan favorites, is all."

"Instead of trying to dissect whatever psychoanalytic deduction you are making just because of the Atwood novel I happen to be reading at the moment, I will stay silent." I cross my arms, giving him a tired look that I hope sends the message my football match has wore me out too much for these mind games - I just want to eat. Mycroft smirks, still looking around at my four walls. A rush of shame clouds my face as his eyebrows raise when he lands on a childhood picture of my sister and I in our tweens, baby face caking my smiling, rosy cheeks. "And stop snooping, get out." I shoo him back to the living room before shutting the door behind me. The mug I set out for his tea is washed and set in the drying rack of the kitchen, and all the teabags are out of sight back, presumably back in the cupboard. He has cleaned up.

"You're wearing a dress," he comments, picking up his umbrella from where it leans against the couch. I did not expect him to notice, and come to think of it, he has not laid eyes on me since I left the bathroom. Yet he still noticed, observed, commented.

I clear my throat. "Well you're always outshining me in your designer suits."

"I was not made aware this was a competition."

"Everything with you is," I reply, walking in front of him to the door. "Shall we?" I have opened it, waiting for him to walk out in front of me. Taking one more look around my flat, he exits, and I follow behind. When we make it downstairs and out the door, the sun is hanging low in the sky. A hazy brightness shines between the gaps of buildings, and I watch our shadows bouncing along the sidewalk. He must have already alerted Norman we were ready because the car waits for us, purring quietly. Mycroft makes it their first, opening the door and letting me slide in. "Have you decided on a restaurant?" he asks once he is seated beside me. The car starts driving, quickly—Norman is really stepping on the gas.

"Oh, no, sorry. I was.. distracted."

He nods, as if he expecting that. "We have to make a stop at one of my offices, so you can take more time to think." Offices, as in multiple? This man is spoiled. I steal a look in his direction, and see his hand gripping the umbrella. His knuckles are white, tight, skin stretching in tension. Taking in his side profile, his jaw is clenched, and his eyebrows are furrowed, staring at something outside. A tiny vibration sounds, and he pulls out his phone and looks at it, not bothering to respond, before slipping it back in his pocket. His head starts to swivel my way, and I return facing forward before he can note my staring. His eyes lay still on my for moments before the familiar changing position of his body in my peripheral vision tells me he is going to speak - he always pulls his shoulders back a little, like a soldier going to war. "I am excited for our meal." His voice is strained, forced into kindness, and don't even get me started on the words that came out of his mouth. _Excited?_ What the fuck.

"Why?" The suspicion cannot help but draw itself in my tone, my posture, my accusing eyes. This evening with him, so far, has been off. Though the invitation to share a meal is kind, there is a tension in the air. Mycroft has not focused on me this entire time, which sounds haughty, but something has seriously been nagging at his head. When I glance at him, not afraid to question his kind motives, he appears terrified. My own facial expression must tell him I notice, because he sucks in any emotion and stores it away. Can he really not permit one moment of honest interaction? This is why I cannot trust him when he tells me he is excited for our meal. Excited people do not appear scared. Something is wrong. Have I done something?

"For god's sake Noreen, can a man not enjoy time spent with a—"

There is a succession of _Bang! Pop!_ Then again. _Bang! Shatter!_ The car goes spinning, I think, though I am not really sure: the car just goes. Somewhere, off the road, swerving lanes, causing my head to slam against the interior. The shatter, which I presume came from the window up front must have broken up, where Norman is. The separation between the front and back is up, so I can't be sure, but the shatter was so loud it had to have happened in this car. How did the window break? I feel the vehicle, slowing, bumping. The first pop, what did it hit? My brain is down on processing speed, and there exists, now, yelling, to distract me even more. When I turn towards the source, there is Mycroft, next to me, his mouth moving, but I don't understand a since word. The wheel, did it blow out? What was the shatter? My eyes follow Mycroft's right arm, in slow motion but reacting so fast, reaching across the backseat to push me down and into the leather, under the windows. Then it happens again. _Bang! Shatter!_ This time, I know the glass back here has shattered, but on the driver's side, on Mycroft's side. A whiff of air flies past me, leaving the sound of copper hitting metal behind. A cry sounded out moments before, or maybe all at once since time seemed to be moving both quickly and slowly, and I only just now respond. Lifting my eyes I find Mycroft's body is leaning over mine, blood trickling from somewhere on him though his head stands tall, looking back through the window that is now blown out. The car has stopped completely. Mycroft still leans on me still, his body pushing me down into the leather even further. Will there be more shots? My eyes are open, but they can only stare at the floor since his three piece suit just about suffocates me if I try to look up. The floor is covered in shards of glass; some are small as raindrops, others jagged like chunks of ice.

"Clear? We're waiting. I need the all clear before we go." Pause. He's speaking to someone on the phone, I guess, because there is no response from anyone else. "Yes, sirens approaching." Pause. Now that he mentions it, I do hear faint sirens approaching. "Do they have him?" Pause. His voice is constricted and blunt. He seems not at all phased by this turn of events. "I am not exiting the vehicle until I know you have him." Pause, a longer one. He seems angry. "Okay." With this last word, he speaks no more. Though I am still under his weight, I feel his head tilt down, like he is resting.. praying, even.

The sirens are nearing us, but I still have not moved. "What just happened?" I ask with a raspy voice. I am surprised any words come out. As if he forgot I was even here, Mycroft shifts off of me quickly, helping me to sit up. When I can finally take a good look at him, a gasp escapes me. "You're bleeding," I announce, trying to scoot over to him. He sticks out his left arm, stopping me from touching his right which is where the wound has formed. Through his right arm, straight through his suit, there is a clean scrape from a bullet. It has seared off his fabric, and a chunk of skin. The gash drips mercilessly, and my stomach goes weak. 

He shakes his head in defiance again as I reach for his injury one more time - I am no nurse, bu t maybe I can help. His breath is shaky, and he bites down hard on his tongue to stop from saying anything. We look at each other, hard, breathing, shook. The same stormy look that dominated him earlier this evening is back again, but really it has never left. His eyes close in pain, leaning against the seat as his wound continues bleeding. He clutches his right arm with his left, cradling it speechlessly. Then our doors open, and medics are carrying us away to separate ambulances. I am shut in the doors before I find Mycroft, though I assume he is in the other ambulance I saw while they dragged me out of the car. My vision is surrounded by people checking me for any kind of injury, I presume, though I do not think I have one.

Because he protected me. 

"Ma'am, are you okay?" A gentle person kneels in front of me. A kind face. Brown eyes. Maybe they are 40, maybe they are 31. Medical personnel always seem to have clear skin and wide eyes. 

Another person speaks from somewhere around me: " _He_ said she has a history of concussions. We should—"

As if that word itself brought back the memory of the last injury that may have just re-emerged from the whiplash and brunt of the car crash, my vision goes black.

\---

When I wake, it is not in a bright hospital room on the seventh floor of a hospital in London. There are actually no windows in this room, and the light, though stale, is not as shocking as usual. Instead, there emits a soft yellow glow from above. The air is different in this room, and something tells me I am underground. All of the walls or gray concrete, a stark contrast to the warm light I am gently basked in.

Right on cue, which makes me think I am being watched, a new person enters through the door at the right of the room. A woman. Black hair in a tight bun. Small smile. "Ms. Jacobs, you're awake. Good."

"Do I have a concussion again?" The memories of the last few moments before I passed out come back to me, and the word _concussion_ sticks out. I really don't want to miss next week's match.

She chuckles, standing by my bed in a plain white doctor's garment. No name tag. "Thankfully, no. We have done scans and have been monitoring you. You had no dilated pupils or other signs of a concussion before you passed out. It was probably from the shock."

Under the covers of a single hospital bed I lay in, I see I am still in my dress. Only my shoes have been removed. Thank god they did not put me in one of those damn gowns. "Why am I in the hospital bed, then?" I ask. 

"We were requested to let you nap." Again, there is a small smile. She holds back information. Obviously someone higher up requested this, and who do I know that is higher up?

"Mycroft," I groan. 

"Mr. Holmes is in the next room over if you would like to see him," she replies. I almost ask her name, but considering I appear to be in an underground bunker or hospital, I don't ask questions. The woman's vague identity reminds me of Anthea, and I figure this _doctor_ will be just as ominous. Though, she is much kinder.

"Sure," I respond, getting out of bed, slipping on my shoes, and automatically going to smooth my hair. There is a mirror on the wall next to my bed, but the doctor is watching me closely so I hurry out and avoid any risk of letting her think I care what I look like. Once in the hall, she goes four feet to the left, opens another door, and I walk in. Upon entering, the conversation that was taking place between Mycroft and Anthea ends. Anthea takes one bored look at me, gives Mycroft some other kind of a look that I can't see from my angle, and walks out. 

"Nice to see you, too, Anthea," I mutter, though the door has already closed behind her.

"Ignore her," comments Mycroft. "How was your nap?"He is sitting in an armchair, nursing a glass of whiskey. He sports a suit, different from the one he wore earlier this evening. His attire is navy and pinstriped, with a red tie and spotless brown shoes. This room he's in is also windowless, though instead of a hospital bed, there is a desk he sits behind and two armchairs on the other side. Like in The Diogenes Club, there are bookshelves and trinkets. Another drinking cart. On his desk there is computer. While I have been observing the room, he watches me. When I catch his eyes on me, they twinkle. 

"I thought you got hurt?" I ask. Pleasantries have been discouraged between Mycroft and I, so I don't know why he uses them now. 

He laughs, like it's no big deal. "I did. A bullet grazed my arm. But I'm all patched up now."

Yet he still wear a suit? I am silent, carefully thinking about how to phrase all of the questions I have. I start with the most basic on: "What happened?"

He smirks, standing from behind the desk and approaching me. My arms are crossed, not in anger or defiance, but because it is cold in here. There are goosebumps on my arms and legs. Mycroft's eyes flit across my figure as he nears, noticing the small dots on my arm. He pauses, frowns, then turns away from me and sits in on the two armchairs. I watch him, and he motions for me to sit in the other one, across from him. "We caught him," he finally says.

"Who?"

"Carver."

"What?" My heart starts hammering and my stomach immediately becomes upset and sour.

"We caught him, Noreen." Mycroft is watching me with hesitation, probably expecting me to break into tears or do a happy dance. But confusion rocks my mind. They caught him?

"How?" I do not mean for my voice to be harsh, but my body is suddenly hangry for information. I want to believe it, I want to rejoice and be glad, but I need to know this is real, that he is gone.

Mycroft now looks happier, more confident, as he goes on to explain. The fact I did not erupt into some emotional panic has eased own nerves. "We planted some clues. Let him think he hacked into information that alerted him you would be driving down a specific street, at a specific time." He scoffed. "The man really thought it would be so simple to gain access into my personal planner."

"WHAT?" I yell, jumping out of my seat. His eyes grow wide for a moment: here comes the emotional panic. "You knew he would shoot at us?" I yell.

"Of course—he is a retired sniper in the British Armed Forces. Us driving between tall buildings would be too good of an offer to pass up for the monster." The calmness of Mycroft's voice infuriates me further and pushes me to stand up from my seated spot.

"What if he shot me?"

He rolls his eyes and sighs, like I am the CRAZY one. "Noreen, we knew he would refrain from shooting you and only try to injure the driver and myself. If I thought he would aim for you, we would not have gone through with the plan."

" _The driver!"_ I exclaim. "You mean _Norman_? Is he okay?"

"The driver died."

"Norman died?" My knees start to buckle, and I am down in the chair again.

He swipes his hand through the air, like pushing away smoke. "No, we switched Norman out with an M15 agent."

"I swear I saw him though, in the car."

Mycroft leers proudly. "No, you just thought you did because he is the one usually driving me. It was another agent driving.. another agent who died." Mycroft must notice the horrified look on my face, because he continues. "He had no family to miss him, Noreen. He died with reason."

I am out of my chair again. "He still died, Mycroft. You cannot just sacrifice people's lives."

"The agent knew what he was signing up for. He knew he might die. It was worth it to him."

"No, this is not okay," I say. The goosebumps are gone, and I am hot with fire.

"But we caught him, Noreen. You are safe." He has set his glass down now, leaning forward with his hands open. He reminds me of a pleading child, looking up at me with begging eyes. "He is not out there anymore, he cannot hurt you."

Frustrated and sighing angrily, I turn from the man in front of me. "But someone died. And you almost died! Why did you do this?"

"I told you I would protect you and your family. And look - now he is caught. You are safe."

My body whips back around, facing him. He is standing now, hands in the pockets of his trousers. I look him straight in the eyes, challenging him to keep the gaze. "But you are hurt, Mycroft!"

He shakes his had. "I was your friend today, Noreen. You cannot be mad at me—I have a flesh wound from a bullet that I _almost_ took for you. Really, do try to be grateful."

"Damnit, Mycroft, you could have died."

"But I didn't, and now you can live freely. Without looking over your shoulder."

We are silent. The man is fucking crazy, if you ask me. Was there really no other way to do it? Could he not have tracked down Carver any other way, and refrained from putting his own life, an agent's life, and even my own, in danger? What if Carver tried shooting while we were at my football game? Or at my flat? Or— _my football game._ I cannot help but bite out the next question: "So you only came to my match to get me in the car with you?" I realize this is a bratty questions - he did just save my life - but it hurts to think he did not actually wish to watch me.

As if he has been waiting for this, he swallows. I watch his throat bob, his tongue wet his lips. He does not even look at me when he answers. "Yes, but—"

"You really don't care about me, do you?"

His face is flabbergasted, blown away. Now, I see his own eyes are hot with anger. A steeliness starts to sprout over his surprised face. The cold starts to creep out of his depths and over the entirety of his being. The tone of his voice feels like an icicle through my body—I have goosebumps again. "Did I not just get injured to capture your hunter and keep you safe?"

He has a point, but I refuse to give in. "But that's not what I wanted. I wanted you be at my game just because you wanted to be. For me. That is what friends do, Mycroft. They don't manipulate their friends to be bait in some sort of plot to capture a psycho. They go to matches and cheer, then we go out to eat, like normal folk." 

He swallows. His eyes have almost gone black—they are dark, scary, menacing. "We are not friends. I have more important things to do than go to a petty football match and watch grown women run around kicking a ball for fun because they have nothing else meaningful in their lives."

"You are a—"

"Don't bother wasting, what I'm sure is a colorful vocabulary, on me. I know I will no longer be wasting any sort of resources on you." A bored, nothingness is planted on his features. "Get out."

The door opens behind me and the doctor from my room and a man come towards me. Anthea is behind them. "Ready, Ms. Jacobs?" says the woman. Her arms move out from her back with a piece of cloth, and then I am blindfolded.

"Why?" is all I ask as I'm being led down some sort of hall.

"Privacy reasons," I hear Anthea reply. We take many turns, some stairs, then settle into an elevator. Soon, the air feel different and we must be above ground. They still don't remove the blindfold, not until I am back in front of my flat, being dropped off.

I mumble a thanks, get out of the car, and run to the front doors of my building. Once inside my flat, I tear my clothes off and shower again. I shower off the messy car ride, the fear of Carver, and but one thing sticks to me: Mycroft's words. What an arse. Just because I am not thrilled about him putting our lives in danger, he takes away our friendship? Fine. I have other friends, but he doesn't. 

My stomach moans. Perhaps I was a little hangry, as he said I would be. 

\---

Sleep does not come. When I check the clock, numbers show me midnight. Cursing, I throw the covers off and slip some jeans on. Grabbing the heaviest coat and fluffiest socks, I finish dressing myself, grab my keys, and head out the door. Once I am outside, regret fills me for not grabbing a hat to cover my ears. I refuse to hail a cab, hoping that if I am walking on foot I may change my mind, turn around, and go home back to my bed.

But now, I am already fifteen minutes into the 28 minute walk. I have not walked alone at night for quite awhile, but with Carver caught, there is no more fear. What could be worse than a man attacking you from behind in your own flower shop? Or following you home? Or shooting out the car you're driving in? 

_Losing a friend who has saved you from all of those bad outcomes,_ whispers a voice in the back of my head. I shake it away: Mycroft is not dead, or lost. You, Sherlock, you are dead. Not your brother. He has a mere bullet grazing. But you, well they had not let me see you after your jump. I assumed it was because the damage was too great, but given the choice, I don't think I would have wanted to see. I have your features fixed in my mind, frozen at thirty years old, alive and beautiful. 

Mycroft will grow, heal. He is not gone. _But he almost was taken away._ Again, I clench my jaw and urge the voice to leave. Because Mycroft was not almost taken away. And _taken away_ isn't even the right phrase. He doesn't belong to me. If anything, something along the lines of _passed on_ is more fitting. He almost _passed on_ from this world to another. _Passed on_ away from me. No, actually, _passed on_ towards you, his brother.

By the time I have stopped arguing with myself, I am in front of Barney's. I unlock the door, not even bothering to glance around and see if anyone follows. Though there were some stragglers on the street, none seemed very threatening. It's amazing what having your psycho stalker captured can do for one's confidence. When I get inside, I lock the door behind me and get to work. 

The first ones I grab are five red dahlias: ripe and bright, striking to the eye, overwhelming, strong, infuriating. And because of that, I decorate the rest of the vase with soft primrose, their creaminess like milk. Next are the forget-me-nots: blue pedals and dots of yellow in the middle. I stand back, admiring the balance between the three colors. But one does not want the bouquet to be too balanced, so I add in a single lily-of-the-valley that cascades off the side, a little taller than the rest of the flowers. Now, the red, contrasted by the cream and the dusty, almost gray-blue, appears softer. But it still shines, bright, against the rest. The bouquet is small, packed. But it is ready. And beautiful. I tie a single thread of cream lace around the neck of the vase into a bow. 

Now it is ready.

I sigh satisfied, having just thrown myself into the art of flower arranging. I clean up the clippings and pieces of oasis that have crowded the corner. Once everything is wiped down, I turn off the lights, grab the gift, and head to the door. I take care to look out the windows for a potential intruder, but of course, there are none. Exiting the door, I shut it behind me and double check the knob. Locked. 

Now what?

I realize I don't actually know where to go to drop the bouquet off. Mycroft was not at some well known hospital down the street. Anthea had gone to _great_ lengths to make sure I did not know where that underground bunker was. Hell, even Mycroft's home address was a mystery to me, which I assumed was also off limits knowledge. 

Okay. Time to think. I scan my brain, mulling quickly through all possibilities. One: I could text him and asked to be picked up. Of course it was, I check my watch, well past one in the morning. Chances are he is still awake. But he appeared angry, _really_ angry. I wanted my presence to be a surprise, a welcome surprise. Two: Put the bouquet back in the store and sell it tomorrow. Three: Take it home for my own table and home decor. 

Tapping my foot, I look at my surroundings as if any of them can provide tangible help. The cold was casting an icy freeze over my hands holding the vase; so I forgot a hat _and_ gloves. The need to make a decision pulsed through me. Perhaps if a cab drove by, I could.. Then my eyes landed on it: the security camera. Looking right at me, positioned at the front of the store.. Suddenly, there was a fourth option.

"Anthea!" I yell at the camera. Figuring there is no sound, I decide my body movements might better alert whoever is watching that I needed help. I start kicking my legs out, then waving one hand as I position the vase under one arm. "Anthea! I need a ride! Please!" I continued to shake myself in various ways, hoping that someone was not asleep on their nightly-Noreen watch shift. Because yes, I KNOW he will still have eyes on me, no matter how angry he gets.

Then my phone rings.

"Hello?" I answer, balancing the vase ungraciously under my arm. 

"Are you having some sort of fit?"

I have never been so happy to hear Anthea's annoyed voice.

"Kind of," I reply, out of breath from all my movements. "I need a ride to wherever Mycroft is at."

"Why?" Her voice drips with sassiness, knowing sassiness.

I hold back a groan, reminding myself that she is the only way this bouquet would get to its rightful owner. "Because you blindfolded me so I don't know what bloody building he is under."

"What do you have for him?" Again, more sassiness. She wants me to beg for this damn ride.

"A flower bouquet..."

"Why?" The clipped sound of her voice sends frustration through my blood.

"They're a 'thank you,' 'get well soon,' and 'I'm sorry,' gift wrapped into one."

Silence.

"Fine. Stay where you are." The line goes dead and I slip my phone into my pocket, grabbing back onto the vase with both hands. After dancing around to keep my feet warm, a new sort of car, almost identical to the one I rode in today, pulls up. Walking towards it, a split second thought crosses my mind: what if this was the wrong car? Perhaps I should be more careful when entering vehicles with blacked out windows. But when I enter, it is Anthea, on her phone. A welcoming sight.

"Thank you," I say as the car moves slowly down the street.

She taps on her phone, not bothering to respond. Suddenly, she throws a familiar piece of cloth at me. "Put it on."

"Seriously?" My groans of protest elicit no reply, so I tie it around my eyes and let me vision go dark. I try to memorize the turns we take, but there are so many that I give up. Eventually, the car stops and I am led, again, by a group of people. We go indoors, in an elevator, and down. After navigating some halls, the blindfold is slipped off of me by a man I have never seen before, and he points to door in front of me. Anthea is nowhere to be found, which I am grateful for, so I take the cue and walk in, clutching the vase of flowers close to my chest.

A sense of deja vu rushes over me: he is sitting behind his desk, same suit, another glass of alcohol in his hand. We look at each other. His eyes are softer than they were hours ago, and I hope his heart is as well.

"I'm sorry," I place the bouquet on the corner of his desk. His eyes are attracted to it, flitting over the colors, and I feel quite proud that it has captivated him as I hoped. "And thank you for capturing Carver."

His gaze is back on me now, lips poking out in thought. He cocks his head, waiting for more. I keep talking.

"And I'm sorry for not being more outwardly grateful to you for capturing him." The silence continues, and because I am nervous, the words keep pouring out. "And I'm sorry you got hurt. I hope your arm heals quickly." I cannot help it that sass also gets into the mix. "And I'm sorry that you cannot say sorry to me because you're a prick." 

Now he smiles. 

"It's unfortunate the driver had to die, Noreen. It's unfortunate I will now have a scar across my top right arm, and that it hurts to lift my glass. But, Carver was more than a threat just to you, but to all of England. As I said, Moriarty may be dead but his allies still operate. Any way we can infiltrate and bring them down, we will. It's unfortunate you had to be a part of that take down today, but you are safe. England is safe. The agent died for both. Two birds with one stone."

That was not the apology I expected, since he was also very rude to me earlier about the football, but I accept it eagerly nonetheless. Mycroft clicks on his computer quickly, then turns it around to face me. The image is stunning: there he is, Carver. Dark, clean hair. Dark, dead eyes. When I look to Mycroft, he is smiling proudly. 

"That's not him," I say, swallowing and widening my gaze.

"What?" snaps Mycroft, standing up and looking at the screen again. "But I thought.. Wait a moment." He grabs his phone, typing something before putting it to his ear. "Urgent. She confirmed it is not Carver, we have the wrong—"

I jump forward, pulling the phone away from his ear. "Mycroft, I was joking, it is him! I promise! It was a joke."

His jaw has gone slack, and he whispers a "Never mind. Resume as usual," before ending the call and placing the phone on his desk. "Are you mad?" he asks, glaring at me. 

"Why yes, I actually think I am quite a bit." I hope my please smile disturbs and irks him deep down.

"Do you realize how much time we put into planning this? How much of the government was involved? Only to have it almost ruined by a florist and her _joke_?"

"That would be quite impressive, wouldn't it?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "Also, I did not expect you to jump into action so quick. I thought I would draw it out for much longer, really let the panic set in."

He narrows his brows and I give him a playful wink in return. Shaking his head, he walks towards the desk. A finger traces the side of the bouquet. His back is still to me when he speaks:

"By the way, I will be at your match, next Sunday. Please don't embarrass yourself, nor me - I really despise secondhand anything. Study the angles, and make the damn shot." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, all!
> 
> First off - thank you for all the comments you left me on the last chapter! It was sooo helpful to know how you felt about the story. And, thank you for reading and sticking with the story! I am so honored and flattered by every read, kudos, and comment I get!
> 
> I have a proposition: in my imagines books I would write, I used to ask readers questions for fun! Now, I don't know if this lot of readers will be interested in doing it, but you all seemed keen to answer on last chapter! Please let me know if you would me to do this, and just to test it out, I'll put a question below! And I might not ask one every chapter - only if something sticks out to me!
> 
> Question: How do you think Mycroft feels about Noreen's flower arranging as her job and hobby? 
> 
> Hope you all are doing well. Stay sane (by reading my story) <3 Much love to you all!
> 
> Cheers!


	8. Eight Months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to you all who respond to my questions on my Wattpad and AO3 conversations. You know who you are. There is a piece of each of your ideas in this story!

_Eight months after_

As the oven dings, I jump from my spot on the couch and run over, slipping into oven mitts and pulling open the heat cave. From looking at it I can _deduce_ a creaminess in the texture, baked a little underdone to Julia Child's recommendation. Wafts of dark chocolate force itself inside my nostrils and onto my tastebuds; if it wasn't some cranky person's birthday, I would eat it all up myself. _Reine de Saba,_ also known as Queen of Sheba, is one of Mycroft's favorite desserts, something his "mummy" (his word, not mine) made when he was a child. When he mentioned this in passing at one of my football matches two weeks ago, I cataloged it for this specific day: his birthday. Per Child's instructions, I leave the cake out to cool and start on mixing the icing.

Mycroft will be pleasantly surprised, I hope. I have resisted texting him a "Happy birthday" greeting, deciding that catching him off guard by making him think I've forgotten his birthday will serve the newly-37-year-old well. Lord knows the man needs to loosen up, and lose the ego—"I told you so, Noreen" is getting quite old. Last week, he stopped in at Barney's to drop off the Atwood book I convinced him to read ( _"Not impressed," he had remarked)_ and while he was there, started nagging me about not having security cameras in the store. When I explained that cameras were expensive, and that no one steals from a flower shop, Mycroft just _hurumphed_ by a display of roses, and I went to go help a customer.

It just so happened—like some weird, horribly timed coincidence—that while Mycroft was in the store that day, a group of kids tried to walk off with some candles and chocolates we started selling recently. Mycroft, of course, caught on before I did and stopped the kids, all while threatening to put them in prison. Instead, I made the emotionally controlled decision to call their parents to pick them up for a good talking to. After the escapade, Mycroft gave me _that_ look, the one with eyebrows raised and pursed lips. _"Next time it won't be just chocolates and candles, Noreen. Nor will they be in the hands of grubby eleven year olds—you could get hurt."_ To which I responded, with an annoyed sigh and eyeroll: _"Fine, I'll have some cameras installed."_ To which he, then, offered to have his own put in there. So now, Barney's is fitted with government level security, monitored by Mycroft himself.

Part of me thinks the fool planned this whole thing out and hired the kids, solely for the purpose of convincing me I needed surveillance done by him. You would know better than anyone, Sherlock: your brother will go to great lengths to protect someone, though not be willing to admit to a word of it.

When the cake cools, I slip the icing around it in a light covering - already the cake is filled with loads of dark chocolate. Next, I decorate the slim sides with pieces of almond. "Voila!" I kiss the tip of my fingers, proud of my creation. Though I consider myself quite the fine cook, my experience with baked goods is limited. This is mostly because once, when I helped my mum make brownies, I did not realize that you had to crack the egg and leave out the shell. Granted, I was seven, but I just threw the whole egg in there and bashed it around. I have no clue how my mother failed to notice, though looking back, she was probably watching my sister as well. Those were the crunchiest brownies I have ever had, and even now, I avoid the dessert when possible.

I leave the cake out on the counter and bring out my phone, the next part of my plan: text Anthea. This would not be possible had Mycroft not double booked one of his days last week—he was supposed to go to my football match, but had a work meeting he could not miss. Anthea was the one to text me, informing me that _Sorry, but Mr. Holmes has more important obligations._ I tried not to take her sassy text _too_ personally, though my thoughts did wander towards curiosity about why my presence was so hated by her.

_Anthea, where is Mycroft at right now? I have something for him._

I click send, passing time by thumbing around on my phone and looking at a picture of baby Freddie that my sister sent. He is a little chubster, and everyone says he looks a lot like me ( _"Are you sure you and I didn't make Freddie?"_ Ian had joked over our video chat last night. _"I'm pretty fucking sure,"_ I had responded. This elicited a nervous laugh from everyone, well, besides Ian and I.)

My phone vibrates and when I click on the message, there is a short response: _1C Portland Pl, Marylebone._

Satisfied with an address and no insincere pleasantries, I grab the cake and card I had written out for Mycroft, inviting him to dinner later this evening, if he is free. Since we had not spoken about his birthday plans, I figured he might be visiting his parents, but still, his self-imporatnce is sure to appreciate the offer. Anthea sends no other text to me, so I exit my flat and go down the steps, looking for a cab.

When I map the address and instruct the cabby, it's approximately an 18 minute drive from my place in Hoxton. As we near Marylebone, I realize Mycroft's current location is fairly close to Barney's in Mayfair, a few turns and twists away. Reading Anthea's text again, I look for any indication of what exactly this address is. Another one of his offices? His home? But as we pull closer, right in front, I am in awe by the white brick and castle like features. The building is at least seven stories high, and reaches around the block like a behemoth - London never fails to impress.

We have pulled in front of the Langham, a fancy hotel that I have never, and will never, step foot in.

"Miss," speaks the cabby, "I think the address is to that bar." He points to our right, towards a tarp overhang on a side door: "Artesian". Thanking him, I pay and step out onto the sidewalk, dodging other passerbys as I sweep up the staircase. When I peer inside the window of the door to Artesian, I forbid myself to step in. The place is crowded well dressed folk holding glasses of rich liquid in their rich hands, and standing in their rich shoes. Glancing down at my plain blouse, jeans, and scuffed ankle boots, it's obvious I do not fit in. Besides, there are so many suit-wearing men that spotting Mycroft would prove difficult, and walking around inside with a container of cake might not look the most.. sophisticated. Noticing that a couple of suits are about to exit the door towards me, I make my way down the stairs and onto the sidewalk, waiting for them to pass. Do I go in? Go home? Perhaps I should text him and we can meet up—

"Noreen?" The hiss of a familiar voice catches me off guard so much that, as I turn to face him, the _Reine de Saba_ almost ungracefully falls out of my grip. Thankfully I recover, and there he is, the birthday boy, standing in a slim charcoal suit and looking most distressed.

"Mycroft," my voice shrieks. Then, remembering I have the cake and card, I try to push it towards him. "Happy birthday," I say, but he does not reach out to take the gift. He is still staring at me, eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched.

"It's your birthday, Mr. Holmes?" asks a man behind him. I suddenly notice the group of people—two men, two women—that stand waiting like company. So that was the group I saw exiting out the door towards me. The other two men appear older, in their forties. The two women - who are staring disapprovingly at me and my shoes - could be anywhere from thirty to fifty; it's hard to tell when their faces are pulled back with botox and caked in anti-aging magic. All I know is they are obviously important people.

Mycroft blinks finally, straightening up to address the man. "Yes, seems some of my family have sent a small gift and had their housekeeper deliver it." His smile is sour, before completely going blank when he turns back to the small group. Meanwhile, my heart drops into my stomach. Housekeeper? Okay, my outfit is not that bad.

"We will be in touch, Mr. Holmes," says the same man who asked about the birthday. One by one, they shake Mycroft's hand. I bitterly note that none of them say happy birthday, however, one of the women winks at him. Mycroft doesn't return the gesture.

When they are out of earshot, he looks my way, obviously peeved - pursed lips, accusing eyes, upturned nose. Simply put, the appearance of a disapproving mother. He opens his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it.

"They didn't know it's your birthday today? I saw this place and thought you might be here for a special lunch-"

"Why are you here, Noreen?" For someone who just received a kind cake as a gift, his tone is anything but sweet. It cuts hard across the air between us. Shit, how I was supposed to know he would be meeting with some fancy pants?

I sigh, then answer truthfully. "I asked Anthea for your location because I wanted to surprise you with a gift." Pausing, I cannot resist to ask again: "Why don't they know it's your birthday?"

He groans, flexing his jaw muscles and blinking stiffly at me. "They are potential business partners, not childhood friends I skipped around the park with."

"Ah, business, I guess that's something a housekeeper like me is too lowly to understand." The words pour out before I can stop them, though, I am happy to see his mouth open in silent protest and the corners of his eyes crack with the slightest of pain. Seconds later, this all disappears and is replaced by his classic stoicism.

"Your presence was both a surprise, and unwelcome. Besides, do you know who those people were?"

"No," I answer. Now it's my turn to bite down, clench my teeth, direct my expression with anger. He is always so ungrateful - I brought him cake for christ's sake.

His growing grin turns pompous, like a know-it-all. "Well, unfortunately, I cannot disclose their personal information because of how important they are."

I only roll my eyes and look elsewhere, at the people walking on the sidewalk leading presumably normal lives, with normal friends, who are happy to receive gifts on their birthday. There is a quiet between us. I sense him watching me, looking at my body language and facial expression, deducing everything I am feeling towards him. Knowing this, I purposefully straighten up and paint on a smile. "I should get going. Happy birthday, again." This time, he takes the cake when I shove it towards him. He calls out to me as I walk away, but I pretend the traffic and chatter around me is too loud. 

When I am at a safe distance, I check over my shoulder and see he is nowhere in sight. The time is at 1:30pm. I could stop in at Barney's, but then I'd have to explain why I asked for this day off, only to just come in anyways. Becca would be miffed since I made her miss a date with her girlfriend only for no reason. Oh yeah - I took the whole fucking day off to bake him the cake, to make him dinner, or in case he wanted to do something. In case he was lonely on his special day. In case he needed a friend.

\---

Since I have the rest of the day off, wasting it with sulking seems imprudent. Upon returning to my flat, there is a running to-do list hanging on the fridge. I will do anything to stay busy at the moment, so my hair goes up in a bun and my cleaning clothes come on. First up: scrub the tub. I turn on some tunes - a mix of doowop and rock - and get to work.

There's a stubborn spot stuck on a corner of the tub. I pour some chemical, though I have already applied some, and continue working on it. Seems the little bugger has decided to put up a fight, for no apparent reason, since I'm only doing my job and being a good person and trying to clean my tub.

Okay, this is getting way too psychological.

Sitting back on my legs for rest, I blow a lock of hair that has fallen into my face. I swear the stain is eyeing me, challenging me. A memory of you trickles into my brain, gladly taking over for a much needed break.

_"Look at this," I placed the card next to you on the table in 221B. It was sent from Ava -_ _on one side it said "Thinking of you" in print with a picture of the beach behind it (my favorite). Inside, there was a_ _small drawing of a bunny eating a carrot in a garden_ _, surrounded by flowers._ _Okay, so Charlotte may have helped_ _considering Ava was only one year old, but my sister's artistic skills were that of a five year old. Thus, it was easy to believe Ava did it herself. "Isn't it cute?"_

_"Adorable. Beautiful. Exquisite," you commented, eyes still glued to your telescope._

_"You could at least pretend to look at it." I poked you in the back of your robe as I walked by, reaching for my coat on the chair. "I have to run some errands for Barney's. Do take a look at the card if you get a chance. It's sweet, Sherlock."_

_"Yes, dear," came out in a monotonous tone as you adjusted the microscope. It was 11am, your hair was frumpy from sleep - what little you got - and your mouth sat in an unmovable line. Sherlock Holmes, you were always quite a sight. Before leaving, I glanced down towards what you were working on, some sort of purple liquid in petri dishes - a chemical? Poison? Instead of asking, just in case it was poison and you decided to use it on me, I left it to the imagination._

_Upon returning several hours later, John sat at the table in the living room while you stood, towering over him, pointing forcefully at something. Taking a second, I admired the moving muscles of your back through the baby blue button up you wore before stepping through the door._

_"I don't think it's a fish, Sherlock. I'm fairly certain it's a dragon. Look at the orange coming out of the mouth." John's hand moved, tracing something for you to look at._

_"What are you two up to? No good?"_

_Never have two men jumped so high out of their seats. "Noreen," gasped John, breathing heavily and sending a death glare towards you, which you ignored. "Didn't expect you back for awhile."_

_Narrowing my eyes between you both, I cocked my head in suspicion. "Yes. The gardener was not as talkative today as usual—" Your hand movement caught my eye, grabbing at something on the table behind you. "What do you have, Sherlock?"_

_"I have many things, Noreen: grand intelligence; clean style; a sharp, yet handsome, face. Would you like me to go on? Of course, I could start listing my possessions, bodily anatomy—"_

_"In your hand, what do you have?" My stride had taken me over to you, challenging you to hand it over whatever_ it _was._

_"Can I just say - teal is quite a striking color on you. Bodes well with your features, and almost matches the color of the ocean, your favorite place on earth, if I'm not mistaken. Doesn't she look GRAND,_ _John?" The strain and heightened tone of your voice alerts me anything happening at this table is simply NOT grand. You're hiding something._

_John nods his head furiously in eager agreement, then stops and starts shaking it. "Sherlock, just give it up and show her."_

_"Oh god, you shrews give in too easily." You appears annoyed, but while I tap my foot and wait, it turns to worry—nervously parted lips, rapidly blinking eyes, sunken shoulders. "Now Noreen, I know it looks bad, but what does the word 'bad'_ really _mean? I believe in association to 'quality,' it coincides with meaning 'poor', but John's artwork here earns at least an 'acceptable'."_

_Two pieces of card stock are suddenly shoved into my hands, and oh my fucking goodness. One is covered in a shade of lilac, the "Thinking of You" lettering barely distinguishable from the now violet beach behind it. On the other side, what was once a happy bunny in a garden, is now crumbled and soggy. Poor bunny couldn't even enjoy its carrot._

_The other document you handed me looks like the original card I received from Ava and Charlotte - a beach scene. But on the other side, the bunny is gone and is replaced with.. a squiggly outline of an underwater dragon? No doubt the work of Dr. Watson._

_"I hate to tell you this, but it was a bunny on the other side. Not a fish, or dragon." My correction is curt, anger searing the edges. Why must you always ruin nice things? And then lie about it._

_"Ahhh, a bunny. How adorable. That was my next guess, wasn't it, John?" How you can be prideful at a time like this is beyond me._

_"How did this happen?" My head snaps up, glancing between you both who now cower, refusing to make eye contact._

_Let me give a brief synopsis of the answer, since both you and John stumbled along its telling: Half past 11, thirty minutes after I left, you had a "slip of the hand," meaning one of your petri dishes dropped on the table while you transferring between them. In an effort to wipe up the mess - which you knew would no doubt bother John, Mrs. Hudson, and I (how thoughtful, right?) - you grabbed the nearest rag to clean it up. Correction: you grabbed the nearest_ anything _to clean it up, which happened to be the card from Ava and Charlotte that you never looked at. Once you realized this, after unfolding and looking at the soiled, purple card, you phoned John in a panic (John used that word to describe your tone of voice), who was already at the supermarket. You instructed him towards the greeting card section which, much to your luck, contained the same card Ava and Charlotte originally sent to me. You ordered John back to 221B at once where you took out some colored pens and pencils, ordering the man to create an exact replica of the drawing. However, because of the sogginess and purple splotches decorating the original, deciphering what Charlotte had drawn was too difficult, even for the famous Consulting Detective and his Doctor._

_"I'm sorry," you said, head bent towards the ground in shame. Remnants of the story floated around in my head, especially the part John mentioned about you sounding alarmed and worried, hurrying the man to run home. Trying to hide this frustrating accident was the work of a scared little boy, but the attempt to make amends was sweet. Though, I do prefer honesty._

_"Apology accepted. But now we will go to the store and buy a new card, and you will draw a picture on it to send to Ava as reparation for your sins."  
_

_"Yes, dear." The tone is not irksome this time, but grateful. You wink at me, grabbing for your coat. "John, ready the crayons for my return."_

The drawing of the dragon you sent to Ava still hangs on their fridge. 

During this flashback, I had started scrubbing at the spot on the tub again, as hard as I could. And finally, it's gone.

\---

While in the middle of cleaning my toothpaste marks off the bathroom mirror, a knock at my flat door stops my scrubbing. I swipe the mirror once more, tossing the rag down in the sink, then wash my hands and dry them on my pants. Peeping through the eyehole, there is charcoal suit visible. Inwardly, I moan. Outwardly, I open the door. "Yes?" I greet, none too pleased by the sight in front of me.

"The card said 6:00pm, and it's only 5:54. I'm not too early, am I?" Mycroft holds the tin with the cake in it, a single piece eaten. His lips twitch, uncomfortably.

"What are you talking about?" Of course, I know exactly what he is talking about - that damn card. Is it too late to recant my invite?

"The card, Noreen. The one you gave me as complement to the delicious cake." His pleasure is obvious - he clearly enjoys basking in my irritation. I want to say no and turn him away, send him running back to Norman in the car, but something inside me - my good nature, charity, humanity, selfish desire for a friend - forces me to step aside and let him waltz in.

"And I brought the cake," he adds on, setting it on my kitchen counter. "I treated myself to it a bit, after lunch, and I wish for you to enjoy the treat as well. It's really quite something." He faces me as I shut the door and walk past him to the fridge, ignoring his compliment as I take out the shrimp that was thawing over night. "You haven't started cooking?" he inquires.

"I forgot you would be joining me." My response is curt, and I'm glad to pull off a tone like his. The man thinks he can call me his housekeeper in public, obviously embarrassed to be with me in front of his _cool_ friends. I'll make him dinner, but that doesn't mean I have to be nice. In fact, I am always the one making conversation, asking questions, inquiring - as friends do. Now it's his turn, see how hard it is to talk to someone with an enormous chip on their shoulder.

As I move to take the vegetables out of the fridge next, Mycroft nears me. "Would you like some assistance?" His attempt at gentleness is noted, but declined.

"No."

He sighs and steps away as I take out a cutting board and the sharpest knife I can find. For a moment, there is only sounds of peppers and broccoli being cut up, carrots being shredded, shrimp being shed of their tails. It's him who breaks the silence.

"I have an interesting offer for you."

Stealing a glance at him, his arms are crossed, leaning back against my counter a few feet away and watching my fingers move around the slippery crustaceans. I'm baited. "What is it?" If he asks me to put security cameras in my flat, I swear I will throw this shrimp at his head.

"There is a banquet coming up, next month. It is for.. governmental higher ups and some environmentally conscious friends. Our planner would like flowers, plants, or anything natural looking, to decorate the event. Bouquets on tables, shrubbery lining the entrance, other _floral_ decorations." He ends there, and while I give the shrimp one more wash, I decide to go along with this perfectly timed favor, or should I say peace offering?

"And?" I urge, waiting for him to continue.

It's a difficult task to hide the delight rolling through me as he huffs, shifting on his feet before responding. " _And,_ I told her I know of a florist."

"Really?" I say, turning to my spice cabinet where I pull out the works, including cayenne and garlic, amongst others. "And who is this _florist_?"

"It's my birthday. Do you really have to be so difficult?"

"Just acting as you do on a daily basis." I begin to heat one pan, adding in oil and vegetables so they can cook. Next, I start in on mixing the sauce. All the while, Mycroft continues drawling on.

"I informed the coordinator you have quite the talent, and I gave her your contact information. Expect a call in a few days."

When the sauce is done, I check on the vegetables. At long last, there is only the shrimp left. I dab a bit of olive oil onto the pan and pour them in, seasoning these tasty delicacies to my heart's desire. As they heat up, I prepare to flip them quickly once they turn pink.

"Thank you," I finally admit. I allow myself to glance away from the heating shrimp to the, quite contrasting, cold man standing in my kitchen. At my gratitude, he visibly warms.

"You will be reimbursed for your services, of course. But Diana will give you more details."

"Diana," I repeat, my voice going an octave higher on the last syllable. My back is turned to him, flipping shrimp quickly before they can lose all their flavor. Mycroft rarely refers to people by their first name. "Was she one of the women at the bar with you today?"

His voice is closer to me now as he watches my movements over my shoulder. "No. But would it be terribly awful if she was?"

_Well, no, but one of them winked at you and I figure she must know you well enough to have felt comfortable doing that. Perhaps, it's because you call her by her first name, like some friend._ I don't say this out loud, but I think it. I have been thinking it, since I got home. My reply is back to him is honest, mostly: "I just don't want anyone questioning why your family's housekeeper also doubles as a florist. Might put you in an uncomfortable position."

"How did I know that comment would come back and bite me in the arse?" he chuckles, shaking his head and smiling at the ground. I watch him inhale a deep breath and let it go, presumably with all his frustration towards me as well. Then he gazes at me with softer eyes - today the gray looks almost blue, those there is still something icy in them. "Noreen, you must understand my job requires a certain lifestyle. To do my job good, I must do it alone. And the people I encounter, they must believe I do it alone. No one wants to work with a man who kindly accepts a chocolate dessert from a friend on the street."

"Well, I do." I mix the shrimp, vegetables, and sauce all into one pan. The smell that hits my noise is superb, and my mouth explodes in desire.

"Yes, but you are just a florist," he replies. It's obvious what he is doing with that phrase: trying to get a reaction out of me. It works, a little bit.

"I must be a damn good florist if you recommended me to _Diana._ " The bitterness is impossible to leave out of my tone.

"Yes, _Mrs._ Dupont will be very impressed," he replies coolly.

I face him, waving a white flag inwardly as I decide I have been impolite for long enough. "Dinner's ready," I announce, offering a friendly smile, and it's up to me to break the eye contact as I set the table. We sit down to eat at the little two-person layout I have, pressed up against a window overlooking a small walking path below. The sun is lower in the sky, though streaks of pink and orange are beginning to color - it will be a beautiful sunset.

"I almost forgot something," I mumble, getting up to fetch the special drink I bought earlier this week. I grab the wine that was slipped into the fridge for a few minutes while he wasn't looking, and bring it to the table, along with an opener.

"German Riesling?" he asks, studying the bottle. He raises an eyebrow at me. "I thought you liked red?"

"I do." I take my place again at the table, but he is still waiting for me to explain my act of kindness. "But you prefer white. So, since you bought me a bottle of red in Shenley, I will buy you a bottle of white, now."

The answer seems acceptable to him because he takes the wine opener and unscrews the cork. Letting it breathe, he pours a bit into each of our glasses. We begin eating, quietly, though I eventually resolve to speak to him. There's an edge between us, and unsolved _something_ , though I attribute it to the fact we always end up arguing when we're together. Sorry, _bantering,_ friendly banter. Though, I believe we both get quite angry thanks to our tempers and obvious personality differences.

"Did you phone your parents today?" I search for a piece of shrimp on my plate and wait for a reply.

He swallows, wetting his lips with the wine. "Yes, over breakfast this morning."

"Good." I glance up to find him already peering at me over his plate, nodding in polite agreement to what I've said. He dabs at his mouth with a napkin before grazing over me, searching.

"You didn't work today," he remarks, his eyes traveling to my hands and blouse. "Nor play any football." He continues examining me, before letting his orbs dart around the flat quickly. "You were cleaning. So you had a day off?"

I cock my head, draining the rest of my hand and pointing to my glass so he can refill it. "Yes, Mycroft, I had today off."

"Correction: you _took_ today off. For my birthday." He states it, like a fact, like he's a fucking scientist talking about gravity. His hand moves gracefully to fill up my glass, and he tips some more into his own.

"No," my voice wavers. "It just so happened I had it off. A coincidence."

"A Monday? Really?" he inquires, twirling some noodles around his fork. "You _never_ have Mondays off." The sides of his lips are raised vainly, eyes dancing with mischief.

"Shut up, okay? Don't make me..." I fade out, not wanting to finish my own sentence. Instead, I suck down more wine.

"Don't make you what, Noreen? Admit something? Admit that you took the day off for my birthday even though I, myself, did not take the day off. The sentiment is really showing.. and it's quite sickening." He can barely contain his delight.

"You're enjoying this too much."

"But you aren't," he comments, and I throw him a disbelieving look. "Nervous drinking," he tips his head to my almost empty wineglass. He goes to refill it for me once more, and I do not stop him.

"Okay fine." I get up, grabbing both of our now empty plates and walking them to the sink. When I set them down and turn around, his curious stare makes the bubbles of wine in my stomach pop. "Deduce me," I order.

"Excuse me?" The look on his face is peppered with amusement, but slight trepidation.

"I mean you already stated all these facts about my day - what I did, what I didn't do, and so on. So come on, just deduce me. Everything."

A moment passes where I think he might say no, but this is the man who will do anything to show off his knowledge. I have laid out the perfect space for him to do so, with a person who actually wants to hear his assumptions and educated guesses for once. Though I have no doubt he will insult me as some point, the wine has already started to flow through my head and tells me _It's fine, you'll recover_. How often is he rude to me in our friendship, yet I still forgive? I made the man dinner after he called me his family's maid. He can, apparently, do no wrong in my world.

Mycroft licks his lips, thirsty to give into my offer; he cannot refuse it. He stretches his arm, motioning for me to sit back down in my seat across from him. I put up my pointer finger, meaning _wait_ , and head towards a kitchen cabinet. Considering I've about finished the bottle of wine, it's time to bring out the real shit.

"Oh god, Noreen." He spots what I have in hand, and shakes in disbelief.

I set down the bottle and two water glasses on the table. "Sorry I don't have those fancy shmancy diamond glasses you like. And this whiskey isn't top notch stuff either."

"I can tell." He winks at me before gladly taking a small sip from the glass I have just poured for him. I've noticed everything he does, every movement is like a bird: small, tiny, and even he himself appears to have long skinny legs that perch themselves on the floor. Though, lord knows his presence takes up more than enough space in a room. Suffocating.

I hesitate to pour myself a glass yet of the golden liquid, deciding to finish the bottle of wine first. "Very well then." I sit down, opening my arms to signal him to begin. "Hit me with your best shot."

He taps his fingers on the table, chewing on his bottom lip while he surveys me. His inspection starts at my head, traveling down my neck to my shoulder, and all the way to the tips of my fingers that grip my wine glass. His eyes dart back up to my own and he takes a sip of his own drink. I try not to squirm under his watchful irises.

"Stand up."

I scoff, "what?"

"Stand up. If you want a proper deduction, I have to see all of you." He flicks his fingers towards open space, and I grudgingly obey.

Part of me wants to cover my eyes and go running into my room, diving underneath my covers. His heavy stare weighs on me, and the thought of what scrutiny he is gathering in his head makes my knees wobble. His eyeballs are penetrating into my core, and I wonder if I should have changed shirts or pants. I'm still in my cleaning clothes - leggings and a stained, casual tunic. Would he think me different if I was wearing a skirt? My football shorts? Or maybe I should have put on makeup, done my hair?

"Spin." His command is strict, armed with daring eyebrows and a tight mouth. He actually wants me to twirl, like a freaking ballerina.

"This was a mistake." Groaning, I turn around, but not before tossing him a glare. Facing completely away from him, I stand still for a few seconds to let him get a good luck. What the hell is he deducing about the back of me? I really hope there are no embarrassing stains or holes, especially in the area concerning my rear end. Of course, he better not be looking at my rear end at all, or I will slap him. Happily.

Slowly I turn back around, once again facing Mycroft. His mouth is a bit agape, but he quickly clears it with a small cough, then motions for me to sit back down. A small bloom of pink has started to creep up his neck, and the bubbles of the wine pop in my stomach again.

I need more alcohol. 

"So," I spit out between sips of whiskey, "tell me about myself."

A breath inflates his chest, body shifting in the chair so he leans back from the table, fixing me with a fully recovered bland look. "Insecure." It's his turn to take a drink of whiskey and refill his glass. Cocking my head, I urge him to go on though I am slightly afraid for what comes next. He nods, understanding that I will need more than a single word. "You fiddle with your clothes, incessantly. Outside Artesia earlier, when you noticed people studying you, you tugged on your sleeves and the hem of your shirt, a nervous habit. Even now, when I was.. _surveying_ you, you tugged at any stray piece of cloth you could find. You don't like prying eyes. However, you want attention, though you are not used to receiving it, hence the nervous habit of fidgeting and moving your hands."

A good amount of shock sits in my system, but my head still nods absentmindedly while I process what he's just said. I want attention? Another sip of drink; I gladly welcome the drunkenness.

"And that," he points to the glass frozen halfway to my mouth, "that is your other nervous habit. Drinking. Quite a nasty one, if you ask me."

"Smoking kills," I retort.

His face twists into a smirk. "I have never smoked in front of you."

"But you did with Sherlock. He told me you smoked with him sometimes, and I imagine you have done it since his.. death."

Now the smirk has transformed into a snarl, like a magic trick. "We are talking about you, Noreen, not me."

"Fine. Anything else to tell me?" It's my turn to lean back in the chair.

He snorts. "I could go on, but I really do not believe you are capable of handling more mind-altering information about yourself." The way he watches me, lifting the glass to his mouth, send prickles down my arm.

"You do it differently than Sherlock." My tone is accusatory, but I don't mean it to be. "He used to drone on for minutes, listing every little detail. You notice the same details, yet you say nothing of the like. Only what conclusion they lead you to."

His face darkens. "Yes, my brother and I are different in many ways."

_Were_ , I want to correct, _were_ different. But I leave it, already sensing some sort of flip has been switched inside of the robot. His lips turn tight, posture morphing into that of a businessman. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you sad by bringing him up." Leaning forward, I try to catch his eye, but he is deadlocked outside the window, watching the darkening sky. My mind enters a sort of panic mode - did I break him? Usually, you are not a hard subject for him to stomach, though, his irises are brooding with something again. "How's your arm?"

The question grabs his attention, and he shakes whatever thoughts he had right out his head. The murkiness of his features lightens, and we are right back to where we before I brought you up. "Healing fine. Seems I have earned a battle scar."

"Show it to me." My mind races with possible images of his wound: jagged, textured against the skin, or maybe still bloody and swollen. Even in the car last month, where I was with him when he received it, there was nothing I could make out besides a bloody mess. He had seemed patched up fine in whatever medieval dungeon hospital we were in then, since he still wore a suit, like we had not almost just died. There is a possibility I want to see the scar so my guilt lessens, since he got it while protecting me. However, it may kick off an opposite effect, only plunging my feelings of guilt further. I know Mycroft does not blame me for his injury, but I was quite uncivil after the whole spiel. We weren't friends for a couple hours and it about offed me.

"Why would you ever ask to see such a thing?" Though he states this with an air of _I'm not showing you_ , his hands twitch towards the jacket. "But since you are the reason I now look to have fought in a war, I will indulge you." The chair he sits in creaks against the floor as he pushes back and stands up, readying to shed his armor. First, he goes for the suit jacket. He shrugs it off and walks it over to my armchair, draping it neatly over the back. My eyes have never seen Mycroft without a jacket on, and without it, he appears slimmer and almost domestic. There are sleeve garters above his elbows, and it occurs to me that the man really cares about his dress enough to put those machinations on every day - this is not 1895 anymore. Pretentious fool.

He is left wearing a singular vest, colored dark gray, that sits atop a crisp white button up. His tie is a deep burgundy, the color of black cherries at their ripest in the summer. Each dismissal of a button from its hole on the vest is particular, careful. I decide now is the best time to start washing our dishes, leaving him be. And I am affirmed in making this decision because, when I break out of my trance, Mycroft is smirking pompously over his nose at me.

I sprint over to the sink.

My head is pounding while I turn on the water and soap up my sponge. Focusing on scraping off excess bits of food is a welcome distraction from thinking about Mycroft practically _undressing_ behind me. This is not like him, to so willingly accept a task that makes him vulnerable - physically, or emotionally. Okay, relax, Noreen. I wanted to see the scar, he is showing it to me. Just the scar. God, why am I even freaking out? It's Mycroft. It's _your_ brother, the same man who disapproves of my playing a sport and spending my life surrounded by pedals.

"Doc says it will look like look this for eternity," Mycroft mutters, walking up to stand beside me at the sink. The fingers of his left hand lightly brush a raised, thick line that is across the top half of his right shoulder, perfectly straight. The raised skin is pink, and looks to be itchy. My eyes dash away from his scar and, thank god, he's wearing a white undershirt beneath the half shed button up - only his right arm is taken out of the long sleeve, the top of his short sleeve tee pushed up to reveal his battle wound. The pale complexion of his arm is shocking, though his pigment matches the features of his skin I only ever lay eyes on: his hands and face. Instinctively, my fingers reach up to trace the blemish. The healing spot is warm, surprisingly, and slightly squishy. I focus in on a sprinkle of freckles up Mycroft's arm, dotted here and there.

"Lucky you wear suits year round." My voice has gone breathless, hitched somewhere deep inside of me. I try to swallow, but the damn alcohol has dried out my mouth and throat. The tilt of his head attracts my eyes up to his own, attaching our stares together.

"Yes, no tropical getaways for me," whispers this man, this cold cold man. Or so I thought. My fingertips slide down, and his arm remains warm where there is no scar; he is just simply warm, surprisingly. We haven't broken eye contact, not yet, and the glorious mix of Riesling and whiskey do flips in my stomach.

What are we doing? Mycroft and Noreen - this is quite a sight, an odd pair. His face is several centimeters from mine, not leaning in, but not leaning back. Our bodily proximity is close, but it dawns on me our emotional proximity has been closer for the last several weeks—going to dinner, texting, sharing about ourselves. And come to think of it, neither of us have backed away from that bloom of intimacy either. We are still gazing, gaping, awestruck by how closing this physical distance has seemingly altered our places in the friendship. I let my thoughts venture the possibility that we have always been like this - feelings trapped under a surge of friendly batter, petty arguments, coy surveillance, and rare touches. But it cannot be so, not those overcast and indifferent eyes that have turned to liquid while matching mine, they cannot care that much.

Breaking the connection, I shift my head down to take in his scar again - a perfect line scraping freckled flesh. My hand still rests on his arm, brushing the skin lightly. I had to stop eye contact, only because I know he can read my thoughts. While I travelled down memory lane just now, trying to understand this moment we are in, he went with me. But I must ask myself, alone: now what? Where do Mycroft and Noreen go with this situation?

Everything that comes next happens too fast: when I look back up, those once gentle grays that assessed and caressed all of my features tonight, have broken like branches off a tree, into a million pieces. He is gone, whoever that Mycroft was that came tonight for dinner and deductions, the one that baited himself to catch the bad guy, the one who dragged me out of my flat all those months ago, he is gone. Erased. All within a millisecond of looking away. It's my own fault, losing my friend because there occurred in both us a feeling of _more_ than friends. But no. Not possible, not between us. We are back to basics, rewinded to months ago: I am his brother's pet. He is my boyfriend's rude sibling. He does not need to say a word, the look says everything: _this is over, whatever this is, before it can begin._

Whatever possibilities stroked my mind seconds prior about us are gone, his moving body taking them with him. "No. This is inappropriate. Unprofessional." He has stepped away from me quicker than I can register; now buttoning up his shirt in fury, tying the tie, the vest and buttons following, the jacket swinging on at last. When he sighs, his entire being does, too, heavy with the weight of anger. "From now on, we hold a strictly professional relationship."

"Wha-"

"Ms. Jacobs, you are a lowly florist I have no time for. Whatever you imagined was here." he motions at the air between us, "was a figment of your simple imagination."

The nausea hits me hard - I am not drunk, just hurt.

His jaw is set, eyes on fire with ice. How can someone look so furious with hurt, yet drenched in detachment. "You will not contact me any further, unless it is of an important business matter. And I expect there will be no business, so do not contact me."

"Mycroft—"

"It's Mr. Holmes." 

The flat door slams behind him. Shutting my eyes, I cannot fathom what has happened, not yet. But my stomach churns, trying to digest the alcohol and agony erupting inside of me. A familiar feeling pokes at me above my naval, traveling upwards. Sprinting to the bathroom, I vomit shrimp, vegetables, and that damn Riesling. Resting my head, I beg the dizziness to stop. When I am sure all has been retched out of me, I push down the lever, hoping the flush carries away the bitter smell, along with all memories of Mr. Holmes. 

\---

_The next day_

The first thing I do when arriving to Barney's this morning is search for the bloody security cameras. Ripping them from the walls tends the wildfire fire inside me, but it does not prove satisfying enough fuel. Taking them outside, I stomp on each one, smashing its stupid pieces into stupid bits, then with a broom and dustpan, sweep them up and into the garbage can.

Lowly florists do not need surveillance.

Strictly professional contacts do not monitor one another. 

Strangers do not care for each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun. Our beloved dynamic duo is, well, struggling (to say the least).
> 
> I am VERY excited about the next few chapters. The plot thickens, for many reasons. The next update will take me a bit longer to get out, so brace yourselves, my dear readers.
> 
> Question: What color tie best describes Mycroft, and why? I cannot get the burgundy color out of my mind, though a mustard yellow seems fitting, too. Something darker, but beautiful to look at its intensity.
> 
> Thank you all, again, for reading, kudos-ing, and commenting! My gratitude towards you will never end - it is such a joy to experience this story with you lot!
> 
> Until next time (unless you completely loathe me now because of this chapter and will cease reading.. I love you anyways!)
> 
> Cheers!


	9. Nine Months

_Nine months after_   
  
  


"So then I told Ellis, fuck you!" Parker is yelling at me over the thumping beat of music while her drink nears dangerously close to the rim of her glass. We're in some club she asked me to meet her at, _"So I can introduce you to my beau,"_ she had told me.My level of excitement currently exists at a four out of ten—sure, it is great to see Parker, but I am muddled by disappointment because of her and Ellis. The _beau_ I'm waiting to meet is some bloke her coworker introduced to her to last week. _"What does he do for a living?"_ I inquired over the phone yesterday. _"I don't know, something with plants or whatever. You two will get along."_ Great - we will have a common interest in living things that do not spill their vodka cranberry all over our trousers, like Parker did just now to me.

"I'm so sorry Nore," she squeals, grabbing some napkins to dab at the spot. I wave her away - rarely do I wear these trousers anymore. When I dressed today, I was scandalized by the amount of curve the fabric showcased, which only reminded me of the fact I had been working too much. My ventures out into club life had been vacant for quite sometime, though what had distracted me from going out prior does not exist any longer; unannounced dinners and meeting have vanished from my every day life.

As I pat the wet spot spilled over the lower half of my crotch and a down my left thigh, Parker's hand knocks aggressively on my shoulder. "Nore, he's here." Clenching my annoyance, I follow where her eyes are looking. A stunning bloke with bright blonde hair approaches our table. The brown of his eyes are so bright that I consciously note my own must look dreary next to them. His choice of style is sophisticated - a shirt with a casual sports coat over it, black trousers. Above the clothes, though, his face is pestered with baby boy features; I remember Parker confiding he is twenty eight, two years younger than us. My eyes dart between the two of them and confirm my suspicions: they look like a supermodel couple.

"Baby," Parker coos, grasping his arm to pull him closer. They lock lips quite zestfully, leaving me to stare at the bottom of my pint while I drain it. This is fun. "Nore," she slurs towards me. "This is my handsome lover, Roman. Roman, this is my handsome girlfriend, Noreen."

Roman sticks out his hand, offering a goofy smile. He looks really young, more like twenty three. "So you're my competition for Park's attention, ay?" His hands are cold and soft, an odd combination.

"And you like 'plants and shit' as Parker so eloquently worded it?"

He laughs, a big belly laugh. The sound is shocking, not due to the volume, but because I actually made him laugh. Me, Noreen, funny?

"Yes, that's me. And you 'make flowers look nice,' as she so eloquently told me?"

Now it's my turn to chuckle, though the sound is more of a scoff. I decide I like Roman. Since arriving, he keeps glancing at Parker with puppy dog eyes and keeps an arm around her waist. Not to mention, he is actually humored by me.

"Something like that." We continue small talking for a bit, but we can barely hold a conversation whiste Parker juts in her two cents here and there, or randomly decides to snog Roman; he, of course, puts up no complaint with _that_ interruption. During one of these sessions, my eyes flick up and around the club. There are loads of people, bodies tightly packed. As a thirty year old, I feel a bit too grown up to be here. However, as a "young professional" in London, I realize I am in the right place. There are people dancing, talking, drinking, and the eye of a tall, dark, and handsome man catches mine before I am distracted by a familiar form sitting behind him at a barstool, ten feet away from me: Ellis. Straining, and ignoring the now confused hottie still ogling me, my mind jumps around trying to excuse myself from the situation at hand so I can see my other friend who I assume is here by no accident. "Would you lot like a refill?" I ask. The lovebirds break apart, gratefully accepting the offer though they may just want to kiss in private.

I weave through bodies like a corn field, packed tight with some stalks shorter and some taller. They push against me, and some guide me through with a small hand on the back, while others unknowingly jut elbows into my shoulder. I try to keep my sight set on Ellis, but there is always someone stepping in front of me, pressing me to the side, tricking me off course. Eventually, I make it, and god, it's as if I've finished a Bolton Iron Man race. "Ellis," I greet the back of his head breathlessly, slipping an arm around his drooping shoulders. His head, which is buried in his pint, moves to look at me for a fraction of a second.

"Noreen." His voice is gravelly, sparse with excitement. He moves his arms, head now propped in his hand as he raises his eyebrows in a better welcome. "How goes it, champ?" He's obviously pissed considering his words slur slightly and his eyeballs roll around sloppily in their sockets. But still, the trying smile he offers is warm.

"I'm well, considering I am now in the company of a good friend." The bloke behind me has vacated the stool next to Ellis, and I earnestly sit down. The bartender takes my order, and when I'm done, Ellis is draining his glass. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, then raises a finger to the bartender to order another. "What brings you here, Ellis?"

Ellis pauses, peaking at me beneath his drooping eyelashes with a toothy grin. "Do you not want me here?"

I can tell he is feeling pitiful for himself, but I refuse to play into it. "I do. But I figured you would be meeting someone tonight. A mate, a lady, both?" I let my eyes search for his raw response, nay, observe for it. The theory I cooked up on the walk over is that Parker somehow broadcasted her presence here with a new man, it got back to Ellis through some grapevine, and that's why he now sits alone at the bar in direct eyesight of our table.

"Both," he grumbles. "Parker sent a text informing me she would be here with some bloke she's dating, and that she would, and I quote, 'love' for me to meet him because we are 'similar' and 'will get along great'." Ellis' tone takes on a high pitched, chipper voice - an impressive mock of Parker. The bartender hands him another pint and I watch Ellis reach towards it then stop himself, wrestling internally. He sighs, blowing the air upward so that if he had long, floppy strands, it would push it around his head like bangs. But instead, it merely grazes his buzzed line. "I don't have a good feeling about this guy," he starts, sitting up a little straighter. His eyes search behind me, towards the table where Parker and Roman sit, most likely still swallowing tonsils.

"Do you even know him?" I direct my question with suspicion. There is no doubt a hint of jealousy seeping out of Ellis, and I will not let it strew my own honest opinion of Roman. Am I upset with Parker for ruining yet another chance for romance with Ellis? Yes. But I don't believe Ellis is so innocent either—who knows what he said to Parker to drive her towards Roman. I swear they were together just the other week. Either way, Roman is not the problem at hand: my two best friends are.

Ellis' face is drooping sadly, twinged with guilt, envy, and fear. His mouth twitches to respond. "No, I don't know him, but I've asked around about him and he's a bit shady." My one raised eyebrow sends a clear message of disapproval, so Ellis continues. "Nore," his voice is pleading, "she's been getting back into drugs lately, because of him."

"How do you know this?" Parker's drug habits are no surprise to me, nor do they worry me too much. The girl has dabbled here and there, off and on, but she's still able to function at work and in life for the most part. There has only been one bad accident, and she swore it off since then. Of course, that was a year ago - times change, people change.

"Mutual friends. I think this git is feeding her habit."

"And you never did?" The dry tone my answer comes out in is surprising even to me. Ellis sighs defeatedly, accepting that I am right. They were into doing drugs together at one point, here and there on occasion of a party or going out. So really, Ellis has no room to judge what Roman and Parker do.

"But I don't—"

"There you are!" Turning my head, Roman has now joined me at my elbow and interrupted, what I expect, was more of Ellis' protests and defenses - perfect timing if you ask me. He smiles at me, wide and goofy, though not on purpose. "Parker was worried you upped and left us. I sat her with a gal while I came to fetch you and our drinks!" His sparkling brown eyes glance at Ellis - again, mine must be as dull as burnt toast "Hello, lad," Roman offers his hand for a shake. "Are you a friend of Noreen's?" In return, Ellis, with his eyes dead and bleak, accepts the outstretched symbol graciously.

"Yes. Name's Ellis."

"I'm Roman. Come join our table, mate. We've plenty of room! I'll open a tab," he points at both of us, "so don't be afraid to use it." Roman grabs his pint from bar and motions us to follow as he takes a gulp and starts to weave through the crowd back to Parker. I can't help myself as I give Ellis a stern _I told you so_ look before following. If Ellis is feeling anything towards Roman, it's jealousy: he's got the girl, _and_ the charm. One point to Roman!

\---

My decision to leave the bar could not have been more perfectly timed. Ellis had disappeared with an acquainted woman hours before, and Parker and Roman were locking hips on the dance floor like their lives depended on it. Parker's hands were dangerously close to jacking him off, and Roman seemed to find no problem with feeling up her dress. It was about eleven at night, still early, but late enough for me to feel I tried my best. No amount of beer was making me feel any happier about my whereabouts, and men were beginning to stand too close, breathing down my neck and sliding their hot bodies across my back and against my side. All my effort was being put towards avoiding eye contact - the last thing I needed was somebody getting the impression I actually enjoyed the unwanted attention they desperately offered. I'm not one for physical altercation, but the state of my current mood may require an arse kicking if one bloke broaches my personal territory. When I leave the table, I don't even bother bidding Parker and Roman farewell - I'm pretty sure they have been high as planes since their last trip to the loo.

Once out the front doors and away from pulsing lights and blaring music, my lungs feel they can breathe again. The club - The Lighthouse - is situated approximately fifteen minutes away from my flat, on foot. Plenty of people mill about seeing it's Friday night, so I decide walking is an okay choice. Waiting for a bus sounds burdensome, and sitting in a cab won't do: I am restless. My mind, my legs, everything. A buzz still lingers from the beer I have been chaindrinking, but something more sinister and upsetting pounds my feet against the pavement. There is a feeling unfamiliar about walking home alone, now; years ago, this was a normal practice. I was content with picking and choosing my social encounters with friends and family. Sure, there was a boyfriend by the name of Rueben, but he came and went as he pleased (yes, I mean this in both contexts). Then, Sherlock, you showed up. Never have I wanted to be in the presence of a human so badly. So quickly I had adapted to seeing you, breathing in your bad-temper and hidden smokes. When all that remained was the trace of your soap on one of my scarves, I adapted as the human does when forced to cope, back to chosen isolation. 

A more deafening loneliness hits me about two minutes into my trek home. This is unsurprising, yet still shockingly crippling to my insides all the same. The last month has been a series of staying busy, never allowing myself to think or dote too much on certain happenings. Why worry about what one cannot change? Sure, it was nice being in company of a person again—sharing conversations, meals, laughs. But in my head, I have now labeled Mycroft as a lost cause. The fact I even thought of him as a cause - another potential benefactor for my social bank - in the first place is a problem. Our friendship, when catalogued, is rocky. Sometimes I feel myself start to pour over it, the logistics and facts and events, so I force-start a new task: arranging flowers, cleaning, calling my sister, going out with friends, practicing my football skills.

Mycroft.

Where are the moving cameras, watching my every move? Where is the silver sedan pulling up to whisk me away? Where are the mysterious text messages? The commanding phone calls? The unannounced visits? The incessant problem of Mycroft and I's decrepit friendship circles my thoughts like a hawk, interjecting and interrupting moments during my day. The worst part? Nobody knows. There is no confidant I can ask for an opinion from, an unbiased third-party with a birds-eye view. Examples of questions I want answered include: Am I betraying Sherlock? Betraying implies I am forgetting him, moving on. But I remain just friends with his brother, or at least I used to. Would Sherlock be upset with this? Why do I need to be Mycroft's friend? Why does he not want to be mine, anymore? Do you think Mycroft thought I wanted to kiss him, in my kitchen? Do you think he wanted to kiss me? Why were we even close enough to kiss? Why am I thinking of kissing my deceased boyfriend's brother?

Why did he leave, that night?

Truth be told, these questions run like blood through the veins of my brain. They are ever pulsing, teetering on the brink of my mind. I never consciously consider them, always making sure to stop myself when I accidentally broach them in my free thoughts. Now, walking on the busy street nearing my neighborhood, I decide it's okay to do so for a few minutes.

Where are you, Mycroft?

But then I remember the _you_ in my head is not Mycroft, it is you, Sherlock. And where are you? Bloody dead. Gone because you were protecting me, not because you are scared of me. Not because you are some ice cold robot, incapable of getting close to another person and befriending them. Though I ended seeing Dr. Davies - why burden Mycroft with any sort of tether to me? - I started thinking: in losing you, Sherlock, I lost a lot more.

Exhibit A: John.

Just the other week, we had plans to meet for lunch. Seven months have passed since seeing my friend, and yes, I still consider him my friend. At least three have passed since last communication of any kind. So what do I do? Text him, ask to meet for a casual lunch. I refrain from mentioning you, solely focusing on the fact it was going to be his bloody birthday this month. Sure, he has family, though I don't recall him being terribly close to his sister. So, I offer my friendship, my company, a possibility of making him a cake to celebrate. _Remember how it turned out the last time you made someone a cake, Noreen?_ I pushed those thoughts away: John Watson is not Mycroft Holmes.

But maybe he is, considering the rejection that came the day before we were to meet. Still, I texted him _Happiest of birthdays, John_ the next day, regardless of how much he appeared repulsed by me _._ There was no response, but it's the thought that counts, right? If I called him now, to chat as I walk home, I know he would not answer. Sherlock, when you left, did you know you were taking half of my life away with you? Mycroft is the only one I gained from your absence, and now even he has pulled a disappearing act. How is it I have managed to lose both Holmes brothers in a span of nine months? Am I really that skilled in repelling those I care for? Of course, one vanished out of love, the other.. fear? I forbid myself to go there. Instead, as my feet trail across a street and closer to my refuge, I allow a brief memory to slip into my mind, but not too strong of one. It's safe, though fuzzy at the edges. 

_Everything is perfectly medium today. My time has been equally split between cleaning and checking things off our store's To Do list, and helping customers plan arrangements for parties and future weddings. This morning I woke up neither tired nor energetic, the weather outside was neither freezing nor warm, and my morning tea was nothing special, yet still greatly appreciated. The shop is neither busy, nor barren today. Once I see you, though, everything will glow brighter and buzz with energy. That's how the last few days have been: a bliss of perfect mediumness, until you and your coat stroll through the front door of the store and make my entire day._

_Oh lord, it's only been a week and I am already drooling over you, Sherlock Holmes._

_A ring from the front door interrupts my cabinet organizing. I am bent under our front counter, so I try to shove the miscellaneous things to the side, hoping Sheila and Max don't knock over the pile when walking behind to help a customer. When I deem it an acceptable mess, I stand up and come face to face with a stern face and stiff suit. The man is frowning at me down his nose, though he's not much taller than me. His hands are clasped behind his back, straight as a pencil. The scowl he offers is almost fitting on his face, making me think that he probably does not smile too much, ever. Despite his callous aura, I paint on a friendly front and say in my most serviceable, customer likened voice: "How can I help you today, sir?"_

_The eyebrows he raises are disapproving, and with the pucker he tucks his lips into, I wonder if I have misspoken or offended him. When he scoffs, I scramble to retrace and ponder what he is scoffing at, exactly. Holding back a groan, it occurs to me people are just mean to those in customer service because, well, they can be. I brace myself for whatever flack this customer throws my way._

_He opens his mouth an inch, to speak, and I admire his impeccably white teeth. Rich man. "I see there is no threat here," he mutters, glancing around the shop then back at me. His eyes meander down my dirty apron and almost ripped jeans - I want to cover myself with my hands and yell:_ These are my work clothes, okay? Don't judge!

_In reality, I cross my arms over my chest in defense."Excuse me, sir, but is something wrong?" My mind jumps to a potential investigation at hand - is Barney's believed to be the scene of a crime? Oh gosh, what have you gotten my shop into, Sherlock? A scenario runs through my mind in which you only been using me and my store to stake out some sort of murderous lunatic._

_"No, Ms. Jacobs. Everything appears," he studies me once more, up and down, before dismissing me with those sour, wagging eyebrows and a cold tone, "normal."_

_"Normal?" I only question him because how the hell does he even know what normal is in this place? And he says "normal" as if he isn't dressed for brunch with the queen, or like he didn't just waltz into a flower shop and start talking nonsense to the keeper._

_"Yes - average, vanilla, plain. Nothing extraordinary." Now he seems pleased with himself, like an egotistic, frosted muffin. Before I can open my mouth to give him the ultimatum of either buying flowers or leaving the shop, you come to the rescue. When I see you bounce through the front door, John in tow, my only thought towards the suited man in front of me is:_ Bucko, you better watch out. My kick ass partner just walked in with his army doctor. If they won't hurt you, I will.

_But much to my dismay, you don't look happy to see me, Sherlock. "Get out!" you bark, and I jump back in horror._

_"What? Sherlock, I—"_

_"Not you, Noreen," John motions with his eyes between you and the tall man still standing across from me at the counter. His back is now to me, facing towards you. "Brothers," John hisses, standing between the two blokes like a bodyguard._

_"What in god's name—" I cannot even finish my sentence before I round the counter and come to stand between you and your brother, across from John.. "Sherlock," huffing, I eye you, "you failed to mention you have a brother."_

_You roll your eyes, then continue eyeballing your supposed brother with hate rays. "Sometimes when you don't speak things aloud, it means they aren't real."_

_"This is reality, not one of your childhood fantasies."_

_My head shoots to the man on my right, your brother. His eyes meet mine for a brief second before circling back to you. I allow myself to view him again in a second light, but I see no resemblance other than the smug, know-it-all attitude seeping from you two. "And what's your name?" I snap._

_He glances over, only to eyeball me up and down again quite judgingly, before rolling his eyes. Oh there it is, more family semblance. "That is of no importance to you, Ms. Jacobs."_

_"It's Mycroft," John replies. His arms are crossed, and we face each other as we stand between you two. "And he was probably in here to offer you money in exchange for spying on Sherlock. It's a common proposition."_

_"It was one time, John," Mycroft sighs, head turning to the floor for a moment before retaking its tall position to look at you head on. "Besides, I walked in here, took one look at Ms. Jacobs, and realized there was no use even offering."_

_"And why's that?" Maybe that was the wrong question to ask, because you and John both eye me oddly. "Well," I say, holding up my hands, "I'm just curious. Could you sense my good character upon entering?"_

_He scoffs, and I realize he is not a particularly pleasant person to be around. Now I know why you didn't mention him, and why you now stand looking put off and bored by the conversation. "More like lack of any character. Never have I met someone so bland." He practically spits the last word. "Congratulations, little brother, you have chosen the most unexceptional of humans to acquaint yourself with." And with that, Mycroft leaves our sewing circle with a puffed up chest and snooty smirk._ Please let the door hit him where the good lord put him _, I think, as it closes behind his shining dress shoes._

_When he is gone and all that remains is the three of us, plus Max and Sheila's confused looks from parts of the store, you inhale deeply and take in my slacken jaw and shaken features: "Welcome to the Holmes family, Noreen."_

As I near the front of my flat, I vow to leave all these thoughts and memories outside the door. If I bring them inside, they will keep me awake and never allow for a peaceful sleep. Tomorrow, I am expected to bring dozen of bouquets to the hall where there will be, as Mycroft informed me last month, a gathering between government officials and an environmental activism group. As he promised, Mrs. Dupont did contact me last month. We met at Gibson Hall a few weeks ago - an astonishing venue. The inside is naturally decorated in dark wood with granite pillars lining the wall, and when one looks up, there are crystal chandeliers hanging and gold leaf work dancing across the ceiling. Mrs. Dupont, the coordinator of the event, couldn't help but chuckle at my impressed expression upon us entering the Main Hall on our short tour.

 _"Are you sure any decoration is even needed?"_ I had asked, trying to reign in my admiration. Yes, I grew up around the sights of London - the tall buildings, elegant details, exquisite windows, artistic architecture. But my city still left me speechless at times. Also, never had I frequented a building like that, built for people in formal attire and small appetites. Sure, my flowers were shown in beautiful churches and grand wedding venues, but none of my customers ever got married there, in that hall.

 _"I'm sure, dear,"_ she chortled. _"And you come highly recommended from Mr. Holmes himself. I imagine you have serviced prior events?"_

I nodded, deciding to let it slide that yes, I have decorated for many events, but none for the pantywad himself. She seemed very pleased by my silent answer, and proceeded to deliver her vision of the decorations. It was hard to maintain attention, being too busy basking in my own pleasure: to hear Mycroft "highly recommended" me was something of a win, though my heart sank when I remembered he wasn't even here for me to rub it in his face.

\---

_The next night_

I am groaning to have to get fixed up again. After spending the late morning and early afternoon hauling bouquets of hibiscus, gladiolas, and hydrangeas, along with strings of ivy, bushels of evergreen shrubs and cotoneaster, I am tuckered. Thankfully, the whole work crew had been there to help haul from Barney's into a truck provided by Mrs. Dupont, then from the truck into Gibson Hall. But they had to hurry back and open the store for business, so it leaves me to do the rest. Much of the past week has been spent gathering the right flowers and storing them properly so they would not go bad before today. The trip to the club last night was a required break, as Becca phrased it. She happened to overhear my phone conversation with Parker yesterday, and just about forced me out the door to go and get ready for a night on the town. Granted, Becca added wonderful finishing touches and made sure the logistics of transportation and packing were all good to go - sometimes I think I underpay that woman - which was my main reason for wanting to stay at Barney's (besides not wanting to meet another come-and-go bloke in Parker's life). 

Once the flowers were dropped off this morning, Mrs. Dupont met me outside with a group of her cronies, obviously some kind of workers. Heeding my orders - I will admit, I liked bossing people around - they placed the bouquets in fridges and hung up and placed what decorations they could that would not spoil throughout the day. Even though my job was just to be the designated florist, I still helped lay out tablecloths, dust, and vacuum. Then, I dashed home to get ready for a quick hour or two before having to return to the hall at 4:00pm and finish my masterpiece.

And can I just say, the entire time, Mycroft was no where to be found. Not that I searched for him, but I figured he played some role in organizing this event, so perhaps he might frequent the building during setup. Again, I was not looking for him - I swear!

But here I am now, staring at myself in the mirror in my bedroom, rapidly eating a piece of toast with jam smothered on top. My two clothing choices are lay out on the bed, both black pieces of attire. As the florist, I realize I must not stand out. My requested service is not to be confused with a formal invitation, though Mrs. Dupont suggest I stick around, enjoy some food, and get my money's worth for the night—to which I completely agreed. Thus, the decision at hand is an important one because I will be stationed in that place much longer than I originally planned. Standing over my bed, I eye each of the dresses: one is tight, the other loose; one stops above my knees, the other below. Sighing, I grab one of the options and hold it by the hanger over my body, in front of the mirror: it reaches just above my knees, and two black straps reach over my shoulders, though there is a layer of lace that covers the entirety of the fabric and reaches to my elbows. It's loose on the bottom, and when I put it on, it floats around my body like a cloud.

I pick up the second option: a tighter dress that hugs every twist of my body and touches just below my knees. The sleeves barely reach down my arms to the length of a t-shirt, and my shoulders are left bare as the dress cascades in a soft line across my chest. The fabric is smooth, thick, elegant. The second choice gives the aura of classiness and age, something I feel my character will already be lacking at this party; granted, I am just the florist. Biting into the last bit of my toast, I decide to go with the shoulders - they deserve some attention. I toss off my dark jeans and jumper, slipping into some knickers without any lines. I unzip the side of the dress and sneak in, making a face as it takes some effort to close back up. Adjusting myself in the mirror, I must admit to my attractiveness: my collarbones shine with a healthy glow, and the shape my body forms to is thick and fit. Thank god for football.

Checking my phone, I only have twenty minutes to put my face and hair together before hopping in a cab. I tousle my locks with some product, apply light makeup where needed, and head out the door with a clutch my Nana gave me before she died. It's never been used because of my distaste for pearls, but maybe Nana knew it would come in handy one night where I needed to appear fancier than I really am. The traffic in London, on a Saturday night, is dreadful. My cabby - an older man - puts the pedal to the medal and glides from Hoxton to North Cornhill like he owns the place. I make sure to tip him extra; after what they are paying me tonight, I can afford to be generous. Also, the driver reminds me of Norman—he smiles gently, makes kind small talk, and gushes about his partner in a way that warms my heart.

I am let out on the pavement in front of the classical, stone architecture that marks the outside of the building, looming over me as I walk towards the front doors. Upon entering, I notice the caterers are traipsing about to ready the meals, finger foods, and drinks. I dink around, looking for Mrs. Dupont or one of her helpers, and finally stumble upon a woman I recognize from this morning. The redhead offers me a smile and looks happy to finally have something to do—when I found her, she was tapping boredly on her phone, playing some sort of game. We chitchat here and there while we place the bouquets on tables and decorate the backs of chairs. By the time we are done, Mrs. Dupont has reappeared with more of her minions, and they help with last details. I am more than grateful for the extra hands, the fabric of my dress not being the most flexible to work in. Beauty is pain... and uncomfortable.

Now, standing in the entrance of the Main Hall as the event is about to start - my watch reads 5:22 - I look proudly over the scene in front of me: each of the tables are decorated in shades of dusty blue and orange, mimicking the orange stripes painted above each of the windows. There is a small stage, for toasts that I have lined with pots of late bloomed dogwood. Ivy careens around the top, lacing down and around edges of walls and windows. Each of the chairs are caressed with Queen Anne's lace, an allusion towards the sanctuary that our earth is. This party is for environmentalists and government officials to fraternize more, is it not? Perhaps none present will know the meaning, but I will, and I wish the group tonight, _The Sea Greens,_ the best of luck in getting any of these higher-ups to care.

"Noreen?" a voice calls me from behind, interrupting my train of thought. I send off one Mrs Dupont's helpers that is standing nearby to fix the ivy beginning to sag off on a side, then turn around to come face to face with a young, blonde bloke. It's Roman, Parker's Roman from the club last night. He is tidier now, wearing a black tuxedo and lips without a trace of secondhand lipstick. But even when he is done up properly, a youthful puppy still rests in his gaze. We step towards each other, letting guests mill around us and into the Main Hall. I check my watch - five minutes until the invitation's stated a start time.

When I look up again, Roman is still smiling at me, and I return the gesture. "Roman, what are you doing here?"

"You caught me—I'm a founding member of _The Sea Greens_ ," his hands open up, like he is revealing some important piece of information. Immediately, I make the connection to Parker's comment about Roman "loving plants and shit" - the man is a bloody environmentalist. Really, how does he get any better? Another point for Roman - sorry, Ellis. Two points Roman, zero points Ellis. "And do you play some role in the government yourself? Noreen Jacobs: living her day life as a florist, and her nightlife as one of the great British powers that be." His hands rise up and spread apart like he's announcing me on Broadway - this elicits an honest chuckle from me.

"Sadly, I am not that exciting. But I was in charge of arranging the sparse splashes of color you see around the room. Had to offset the black and white attire somehow." It's my turn to signal with my hands, proud of my handiwork and slightly hoping he feels the same.

His eyes wander, nodding in appreciation. "You really are a gifted florist," he comments under his breath, mostly to himself. My face heats slightly, and I remember Mycroft's words: _You want attention, though you are not used to receiving it._ Much to my annoyance, I have to stop my naturally twitching hands that occur as if on cue. Roman is still admiring my floral art when a figure catches my eye off to the left, just entering the hall from a side door separate from the main entrance we stand slightly inside of. Mycroft, like every man here, is wearing a black tuxedo. For some reason, it suits him much better than Roman, or anyone else. His posture is tall, straight, like a string suspends from the ceiling holding him there. The smile he offers to the small group he converses with is effortless, as if he actually enjoys talking to them. What a fake. Three of the five group members leave to find drinks, and it remains him and a woman. She leans towards him, twirling her champagne glass in her hand and resting a hand on his shoulder. Champagne? What a wuss. The sparkling silver dress she wears is blinding, which can only be to distract from the tug of age that has worn her features down. Sure, she's pretty, but not like the _prettiest_ woman my eyes have ever seen. Plus, even I can see she is too old for Mycroft.

"That's the other founder," Roman says, stepping up next to my shoulder and trailing my eyes to the woman. When I look over at him, Roman's smile is goofy, like a permanent babyface. He continues: "Estelle, is her name. Quite a wonder. Up and left her entire family to do our work. Barely sees her kids, but the sacrifices are appreciated. At least, the earth appreciates it. Her ex-husband? Not so much." As I'm about to ask exactly what it is _The Sea Greens_ do, Estelle glances over here. And so does Mycroft. He stands too far away to make out if there is any sort of recognition - hatred, or perhaps longing - directed at me. To my horror, Roman raises his hand in greeting and Estelle says something to Mycroft before stepping towards us. I breathe a sigh of relief when Mr. Tight Arse doesn't follow, but then, my heart falls to my bum as he takes a deep breath to brace himself and accepts Estelle's offer. Oh god.. why me?

"Roman, dear," greets Estelle with a peck on his cheek. She has shuffled over quickly despite the eleven inch heels she wears. "And who is your gorgeous friend?" Her eyes flick over me, kindness creeping in on the edges. Okay, I concede, she's not as bad as I thought. And I respect a woman who dominates the floor in tall shoes without tripping. It takes all my strength not to look at Mycroft standing firm beside her, filling up my peripheral—I know what lies beneath the sleeves of that suit... Oh stop, Noreen!

"This is Noreen." Roman's empty hand signals towards me. Gratitude surges through me when I remember my dress is black, otherwise a flood would be gathering darkened blue or red material under my pits. _Attention. Scary._ Estelle leans forward, also wanting to peck me on the cheek. Returning the gesture, I finally dare glance over at the shoulder towards the stoic who tailed after her. I'm disappointed to find him biting his tongue, looking dully away from either of us.

"And how did you to come into each other's company?" Estelle inquires, once she has released me. The sparkles on her dress have coated my own black gown enough that a mission to the bathroom will have to be conducted to dust them off.

"She's my date."

If I had a drink, I would surely be spitting it out all over Estelle's glittery gown. Date? Roman grabs my arm to steady me, probably sensing the rising panic that just gave way all over me.

"Ah, Mr. Jameson," welcomes Mycroft to a man entering the great hall behind us with, who I presume is his wife. "Excuse me." Mycroft bows a bit, directing his politeness to both Estelle and Roman as he leaves to entreat someone else with his insincere greetings. And just like that, he has left again.

"I suppose I should go thank Mrs. Dupont myself. The flowers and decorations are lovely! Pleasure meeting you, Noreen." Estelle gives me a smile before patting Roman's arm and stalking off towards her next victim to attack with sparkles.

"I'm your date?" I bite to keep out the surprise and confusion, trying to stay calm, but Roman catches on. "I thought you and Parker were—"

"We are," he chuckles, taking a sip and looking around the room, eyes zeroing in on Mycroft who has now escorted Mr. Jameson and his wife towards a table with other old, important people. "But the bloke kept staring at you, only looked away when you happened to glance at him. Thought he might be interested or something, so I played a little trick and called you my date, just to see how he would react." Roman smiles at me behind his amber filled glass.

"And?" I pray Roman does not detect the quiver hanging in my tone. My eyes refuse to look away from Mycroft as he meanders throughout the hall, joining in conversations. He seems welcome by all, though is by no means the main event. Just a stable figure, one that knows everything and everybody. But do any of them _really_ know him? I have to stop myself from thinking my next silly thought: _Do they know him like I do?_

Roman clears his throat, and I tear myself from staring to face him. "It was like I took away his favorite toy or something. If this wasn't such a posh party, he probably would have pummeled me." A beat of silence occurs where I try to register the words, but then Roman speaks again, eyebrows knitting together in honest curiosity. "Do you know him?"

"No, not at all," wheezes from my mouth. "Excuse me, I need to visit the loo."

"Go for it," Romans tips his head. "But do come back. Everyone here is dreadfully boring."

I nod in understanding, then turn and walk out the hall towards the staff water closet down the hall. Once inside, I suck in deep breaths and run my hand under the tap and bring it to my mouth to lick off the water. First of all, I am not _his_ toy. Second of all, why is he staring? Third of all, why do I give a shit?

Exactly. Why do I even care? Fluffing up my hair in the mirror, I decide that enough time has been wasted thinking about Mr. Holmes and his stupid mysteriousness. The git couldn't even look me in the eye. What is that all about? He seemed to have no problem with that before. Before the thing in my kitchen last month.. I shake my head, throwing out all thoughts and memories. With one more glance in the mirror, I confirm my choice of dress: I look dazzling. And it seems other people would agree.

I spend most of the night hidden in the shadows, watching those around me. Including Mycroft. But he's actually quite boring, just snaking throughout the hall and doing more listening than talking. Big men come up to him, whispering in his ear. He nods politely, then moves on. What are they saying to him? I see Mycroft's position as something like a personal counselor to these officials, yet I remember how much power he holds with the CCTV and agents. What s contradiction he is.

Roman keeps me company for the most part, when he isn't being dragged away by Estelle to talk to a person of importance. We laugh at the snarling looks the husbands and wives send to each other when they think no one is looking. At one point, I ask Roman about _The Sea Greens_ and he explains they are a fairly new group, though they have already done more than the rest, whatever that means. When I ask what they have specifically done, he waves me off and says he spends all day talking about his work and it gets old quickly. So, I change the subject to Parker, but he doesn't seem too keen to talk about her either, or about anything at all. He sulks, watching Estelle with annoyance as she continues making her rounds at the tables, patting men on the back and kissing women on the cheek. I wonder if it's difficult to work with someone so much older than you - twenty five years to be exact - but then Estelle comes and speaks to Roman privately for a moment. When he returns, his mood is much better, so we launch into a heated discussion about film and literature and apocalypses.

The night finally winds down to an end, and begrudgingly, I help clean up all that I knit together. Because the bouquets are so well done, I take one home to set on my small dining table. Getting home was a pain in the arse itself: the cabby who drove me offered to take me out for a pint and some fish and chips because, supposedly, I looked like I needed "a real night out with some real fun." This ended in me faking my address and having him drop me several streets away from my actual building. Once I am home, I lock my flat door and close all the curtains - no need for a repeat of an incident like the Carver one.

But I realize the cabby was right: I do need to relax. An awful knot sits in my upper back, wreaking havoc on my mood and physical wellbeing. Thankfully, I have a bottle of wine stashed in one of my cupboards so I fetch it out and reheat leftovers from the other day, hoping that the food and drink work as some kind of emotional masseuse. As my bum hits a cushion of the couch, and I heave a sigh. I'm exhausted. Bringing the fork to my mouth or the glass to my lips is all the energy I can muster. Okay, I can reach the remote and turn on the telly. News headlines blare out at me, listing horrid crimes and happy stories. I half listen, mostly thankful for the background noise. When I finish my plate of pad thai, I rub my belly and nurse my glass of red holy water. My eyelids droop heavily, but I'm not ready to sleep yet. My mind reaches a zen zone—a potpourri of thoughts and memories slide around in my vision while my eyes stare straight ahead at the woman reading off some sort of practiced news line.

_"You require my help, Garrison. Is that what I hear you saying?" Detective Inspector Lestrade just phoned you. I had been sitting at the desk in 221B, navigating through used book websites and watching Youtube for a solid hour while you closed your eyes and thought, and John sat in his armchair engrossed in a book. This was only my third time over at your flat, but already I learned this was a common practice, these were to be our spots (though occasionally, John and I would switch places)_ _. When your phone rang, you snapped your eyes open and answered it with such bitten back excitement that John and I eyed each other, thinking the same thing: Wasn't he just complaining about being bothered during his thinking time? Of course, the reason for excitement was clear now: Greg was calling about a case._

_There was some muffled speaking on the other end, then a rolling of your eyes. "Fine, I won't come." Pause, more muffles. "Say you need me, then." Silence, then an outburst of angry and baffled muffles came from the other line. "Thank you. See you in six minutes and 39 seconds." With that, you end the call and jump from your chair. "Up and at 'em, John. Look alive," you toss the fuzzy cap at him that sat on the skull and it lands in his lap, covering the page of his book._

_"What's the case?" John asks, throwing the cap down with a disgusted look._

_"Too much time would be wasted explaining it to you in laymen's term, then waiting for your brain to comprehend. I told Lestrade we would be there in six minutes, not six years."_

_"Ah, very nice," replies John sarcastically, shaking his head and going to grab his coat by the door. I stand up, deciding it might be odd to hang around the flat while you two are gone. Though, spending time with Mrs. Hudson doesn't sound half bad. "Are you joining us, Noreen?" John slips his jacket on just as you scurry back down the hall towards us, long coat cascading around you and the blue striped scarf wrapped comfortably around your neck._

_"I-uh-" I'm speechless. Go on a case? With you? Yes, I knew you were a famous consulting detective that deduced how people were murdered, where they went missing, why a maniac did what they did, how they hid behind a normal exterior. But surely, bringing me along would only be embarrassing, and out of place._

_"Oh come on," coaxes John. "It's very informal - everyone steps back while Sherlock does all the work. And you and I just get to watch. Besides, you're his girlfriend, don't you think you should see him in action?"_

_It stands true: I am curious to know what you are like when at the scene of murder. Sure, I read John's blog, and he's recounted a few tales for me, but there is desire to see it up close and personal. Still, a nervousness beats down in my stomach. What if you don't want me there?_

_"What do you say, Noreen? Dead bodies are easier to look at after the first few glances."_

_I smile slightly, though my eyes burn into the back of you. You stand in the frame of the door leading out to the stairs, facing away from us. You paused there the moment John extended the invitation to me, and not one of your muscles has moved since. Obviously, you are waiting on my answer. Since there is absolutely no way to read you from the back, I sigh and follow my gut: "Okay, I'll go. I mean, they say fresh air does a body good, so maybe a fresh, dead body will do my air good? Or something like that," I mutter, cheeks blushing._

_John smiles triumphantly, and you turn around towards me as a I near your figure in the doorframe, a small smirk in your features. "You have to wear this, florist." You hand me your deerstalker, winking at me before dashing down the stairs to call a cab for the three of us. The fabric is warm and scratchy on my head, but it confirms your excitement towards my attendance._

_When we arrive to the scene, after a very squished taxi ride (you refused to let me sit in the middle between you and John), we pull up to a deserted park in Kilburn. There are police cars lining the entrance, blocking off part of the road we pull up to. "Stop here," you order, hopping out of the car and leaving John to pay the cabby. I wait for him, then we stalk after your form that has disappeared behind yellow tape and between some hedges. I let John go first, not sure I can stomach the sight of a random dead person. Once we near the exact crime scene, where I spot a gray haired man standing over your kneeling form, I am pleasantly surprised to see not one dead body.. but two. What a treat._

_"Greg," John greets, stepping near the silver haired man and nodding kindly at him. The man, Greg, returns the gesture, then addresses me with a more suspicious look. I realize that my puffy coat and deerstalker do not make me the most qualified looking person on scene. "Oh, sorry," John says, glancing back to me, "And this is Noreen."_

_"Nice to meet you, Noreen," Greg takes my hand in a gentle shake, then elbows John as he steps back. "You didn't tell me you were seeing someone," he pats John on the back, congratulating him._

_"DEAD!" you announce suddenly, leaning back from the two bodies. "Both killed by drowning. How would you feel about death by drowning, Lestrade?" You stand, puffing out your chest and standing eye to eye with Greg._

_"She's dating Sherlock, not me," John corrects, blinking his eyes in disappointment at your behavior._

_"You're with someone?" Greg questions you, chuckling to himself. Then he turns to me. "Are you mad?" he asks, still amused yet seemingly impressed; I'm not sure if it's more so with you or I._

_"Apparently," I reply. "What's better than a date with the drowned and dead?" I croak. My eyes have not adjusted to the bodies, still perfectly dressed without a hair out of place. There is no blood, only blue lips and sickly skin._

_"She is mad," comments Greg, eyeing me admirably, like a dad approving of their child's date. You have now knelt back down over the body's after laying clear claim to me, like some kind of territory. I don't appreciate being thought of as a possessed object, but the way you jumped up in fury when the idea came up that I could be anyone else's.. well it was quite cute. "I apologize in advance for all the questions, but Sherlock has failed to make any mention you," Greg starts again, scratching the back of his neck. "What's your line of work?"_

_"Flowers," I answer. "I own a flower shop in Mayfair, it's called Barney's Bouquets."_

_"Really?" asks Greg, perking up with interested eyes. "And it's not some kind of weird torture chamber or science lab where you perform experiments on humans?"_

_I can't help but laugh. "No, just flowers. And some cards and chocolates. You know, if you need to buy a special gift for a special someone, come in and I am happy to be of service."_

_You mutter something over the body, but before I can ask you to repeat it - I'm sure it's something cruel - Greg addresses me again, skeptically. "So you really are just.. normal?"_

_"Sherlock prefers the term 'generic," I say, letting my eyes fall over you. You are carefully inspecting the elbow of the lady laying closest to you, pretending we aren't even here._

_It's John's turn to intervene. "She is quite good, Greg. You should buy something—"_

_"They are estranged. If Lestrade is buying flowers for anyone, it's for himself." This time, your voice is loud and clear, though you still bend over the crime scene._

_"In that case," John clears his throat, glaring at your interruption, "you should stop and buy some flowers for your place. Really, Noreen is brilliant."_

_My face floods with embarrassment._

_"Does anyone care that I am currently investigating a double murder as a result of pulmonary edema?" You snap harder with your voice this time, causing the three of us to go silent. I've never seen you so heated and intense. It's sexy._

_"Somebody will need a warm bottle of milk before bed tonight," mumbles Greg, smiling cheekily at John and I. We giggle, sharing wide eyes as you stop your circling around the bodies like a predator to stare straight at Greg._

_"Leave. Now."_

_Greg holds up his hands in surrender before turning around and stumbling away, all the while mumbling about just trying to be friendly and keep the mood light._

_"Sherlock, do you really think that was necessary?"_

_"You can join him, John," you say, offering a sarcastic smile as you nod to where Greg has retreated behind a bush. John rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh with his whole body, seemingly deciding if having a row with you is even worth it. He must decide not, because he traipses away, leaving just you and I."_

_Staying silent and still, I watch you inspect the neck of the bodies with a small, folding pocket magnifier. While you are looking at something my own eye cannot detect feet away, you raise your left hand and make a "come closer" motion with your fingers._

_"Me?" I gasp, glancing around in case there are any other potential victims._

_You stop, sighing impatiently. "Yes, you. Come hither." I kneel beside you, watching your eyes as they scan the bodies in front of us. One, a woman dressed in a red dress and black leggings, lays on the ground almost peacefully. The other, a person with shorter hair and dressed in jeans and oversized jumper, looks to be in more pain. Both of their eyes are closed, though the mouths have been left open in small "O"s. "What do you feel?" you ask, taking me in with your eyes for what seems like the first time in years. Your blue spheres are crystal clear, not a drop of missing hue or speck of imperfection. The look you give me is so deep, soaring through the tendons and nerves of my body - soon, there may be a third dead body on scene. Death by swooning._

_"I don't know if I feel comfortable touching a dead body, Sherlock, it's only my first day." Speaking of, a hint of bile rises in my stomach. Thankfully the bodies are not mangled, otherwise it would not be just a hint._

_Your lips careen up slightly, entertained by my answer. Then they are downtrodden again, serious, back to business. "No. What do you feel, where you are right now? What is present around and in your body?"_

_Your question takes me a moment to process, but I realize you are merely asking me to observe myself, my feelings. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself and peer at my surroundings: well, there are two dead bodies, so I feel quite sad, and nauseated. The weather is chilly, but there has been no rain, therefore the ground I kneel on is dry and not to leave any mud marks on my already dirt marked jeans. Thank you, flower business!_

_"Say them," you command, watching my lips._

_"What?"_

_"Your observations, tell me them." Your eyes are wide and innocent, unjudging. Though, I know you will always be thinking what I have neglected to see._

_"Okay, well, it's cold outside.. but it hasn't rained. The ground I kneel on is dry, which is odd, because-"_

_"Do you know what pulmonary edema is?"_

_"Enlighten me," I chirp._

_Your eyes catch mine again, dancing with mischief and energy and excitement. You really do love a crime scene. "Do you know why it's strange that the ground is dry?" You've ignored my question._

_"Because London is incessantly rainy?" I reply, hoping my answer may stand a chance._

_You glance back at the bodies, pale and dead. It occurs to me that there are people probably looking for these two, right at this minute, and I'm on a date with my detective and drooling over his deduction skills. "Pulmonary edema is usually caused by a heart condition, or some type of toxin entering the lungs. Eventually, victims fall dead to the build up of fluid." You pause, glancing at me to make sure I'm following - I nod eagerly. "However, there exists a possibility of rapid, acute set on of pulmonary edema when there is a sudden increase_ _in pulmonary vascular pressures in response to immersion in water through intense physical activity."_

_"Okay," I say, nodding along and waiting for you to keep speaking. Instead you look at me and wait. Then it clicks: the ground is dry. "But if they died from pulmonary edema, then..."_

_You eyes sparkle with something unfamiliar: pride? "Exactly, Noreen. They did not die here. This is a park, not a pool."_

_"So where did they die?" I ask. You look down at the bodies, silent, then turn back towards me. I wonder what you must be thinking, staring at me, but then infer you are waiting for me to answer my own question. "Don't try to make me solve this whole damn case," I sigh. "Deducing the weather was exhausting enough."_

_You chuckle, then stand up. "Considering I solved the case about ten minutes ago, I will not subject us to more time wasting." Tapping on your phone, I enjoy watching your eyebrows furry in concentration. Come to think of it, I enjoyed this little thing we just did: you guiding me, prompting me, though still maintaining a very Sherlock-esque, know-it-all behavior._

_"Wait, then why did you make John and Greg leave? If you already solved it?" Raising my eyebrows, I have a suspicion you weren't struggling at all the focus on the case._

_"They were distracting," you drone, before tearing your eyes away from the screen to look up at me. "They were distracting you."_

_Attempting to hide my smile is impossible: now the truth comes out. You wanted me to watch you at work. You wanted me to admire your crime solving skills, and take note of your practice. And then, you wanted to show me the ropes as well. Of course, you confirm none of this—it's just speculations, deductions. But I'm pretty damn sure that's what this is - instead of guiding my hand while we play pool or mini-golf, you guide my mind in solving cases. I decide the gesture is romantic._

_You stroll past me, and I turn around to follow, but not before glancing sadly at the two dead people: I hope they are not in pain anymore, and that their families receive some kind of closure through your solving of the case. But John is right, it is easier to look at them now._

_Upon approaching Greg and John, they shoot you questioning looks. You rattle off a single sentence, clicking around on your phone. "The killer took them for a nightly swim and they died, end of story."_

_"What?" Greg questions. "I need more details than that, Sherlock."_

_You sigh, like this is such a burden. Secretly, I'm sure you are thriving on the feeling of being needed. "Cause of death is pulmonary edema. These two people were swimming yesterday in a private pool, olympic sized."_

_"They're wearing normal clothes," John comments._

_"Yes, the killer made sure to dress them and blow dry their hair before dumping them here. Prior, they were wearing tight wetsuits, tight enough that it made breathing difficult. The killer had them swim for hours in these wetsuits, with no break, probably threatening them with a bullet through the head if they tried to stop. When they were allowed to stop, the pulmonary edema was already setting in, breaking their capillaries and cutting off circulation elsewhere. The onset was rapid, killing them quickly. After dressing and drying them, the brilliant psychopath dropped them here, to be found. I would consider looking into privately owned pools, if I were you. More specifically, owned by a certain medical professional with a taste for internally caused deaths"_ _You stalk off back towards the street, aiming to get us a ride home. What a mic drop!_

_"Bloody brilliant," remarks Greg, calling over his team to get back to work._

_"Yes, though bloody infuriating just the same." John motions to you to follow him out of the way and back under the yellow tape. Greg nods kindly at you, and you do the same, then follow John to the waiting cab. You stand outside of it tapping on your phone. When we approach, I slide in the seat, with John trailing after me. But you cut him off, insisting that you take the middle seat next to me._

_"Any ideas for the blog title?" you ask, still clicking on your phone as we begin the rid._

_"Not yet," John comments. "It's hard to write one when I wasn't even present for the case." He is bitter you made him leave, so I vow to recount as much as I can to him for blogging purposes._

_"Make sure to include the florist on this one," you command. The smirk on your face makes my insides squirm, and as we meander through London and back to 221B, I feel like I'm heading home._

I snap out of my daze, sputtering and choking on my own spit. Inhaling deep breaths, I close my eyes and try to dive back into that memory: the smells, the sounds, the _you._ But nothing satisfies the ache inside of me. It will be one of those nights where I cry myself to sleep, slobbering on my pillow and plugging up my nose. In the morning, upon waking, my eyes will be puffy and my nose a tinge of pink. I will soften my features with a warm towel, urging the swelling to go down before heading into the outside world. Then, I will go about my day: football, dinner, sleep. I probably won't cry again for sometime, not every night is like this. But some are. And instead of fighting back the raw cracks breaking back open, like that first time nine months ago, I accept them like an old friend. I indulge in missing you, because it is the only way to have you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, old friends. Thank you for your patience and understanding in waiting for this chapter! The holidays were upon me, and I had work to do that I had been procrastinating for a week or more (whoops). 
> 
> Whatever holidays you are or are not celebrating, I still wish you the very best of this last week in 2020! Perhaps I'm a pessimist, but I really do not see the New Year bringing any sort of magical change. Still, it has been another year of life, and I am thankful for that. Probs won't post again until next year (hardy har, had to make that joke at least once). May 2021 bring health, happiness, and many more Sherlock fanfics to you!
> 
> Question: If Mycroft was reading a book for fun, what book would it be? I feel like my literature expanse is low, so I may not be able to even name a book he would read. But still, it's fun to imagine he may like LoTR as light reading, then perhaps some sort of musical history or something of the like. (And yes, one of these answers may be used in a chapter at one point ... All credit will go to you, darling friends.)
> 
> Also, thanks to G99_bazinga, we now have team names for this fanfic: 
> 
> Norlock = Team Sherlock and Noreen
> 
> Myreen = Team Mycroft and Noreen
> 
> Of course, if you have not made your choice of couple, no worries, there are many chapters left for me to wring your heart out and give you many pros and cons of each Holmes with Noreen. Or perhaps you don't want her with either of them (Greg or Ellis may be a fantastic choice, perhaps even Parker or Becca; additionally, there is nothing wrong with her ending up with no one! We can make ourselves happy). Either way, I look forward to seeing the couple names popping up as time goes on.
> 
> Again, many thanks for your reads, comments, and votes. You all are freaking awesome. 
> 
> Cheers!


	10. Ten Months, Dear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Alludes to drug use

_Ten months after_

Pebbles and sand tickle the bare skin on my legs, leading from the ankles to my thighs. For a mid-September day, the sun is surprisingly outgoing. Rays dance across my legs, bearing gifts of vitamin D and pockets of warmth not yet swept away by the chilling breeze. Ava plays near me, filling buckets with sand, then dumping them on Isaac's legs. The Jacobs and Moore families have ventured to Essex's West Mersea island for the weekend to celebrate my mum's birthday. Though my mother and I lack having much in common, or so I think, we both agree that the beach is the most agreeable place on earth. Small waves coast peacefully coast inland, and when you wet your feet, the sand and pebbles latch on like gravel. There are few boats far out on the water, and other families look to be doing the same as us: sitting, watching, enjoying.

My dad has taken little Freddie, already four months old, to the edge of the water, holding him as he dangles his small feet in an inch or so. To my right, Charlotte and my mum are discussing the last time we came to West Mersea, years ago. They want to visit the same cafe as last time, noting that the fish and chips were nothing like they had ever tasted before. The name escapes them, so they click around on Charlotte's phone and try differing combinations of what they think it would be: Oceanside? Beachcomber? Beach-seer? Coastview? All they remember is that the name had something to do with the ocean, and I remind them we're at the North Sea. Of course, my solution is to just pick a new restaurant (the food will probably taste the same) and we can pretend it is the original place.

I resist offering my solution, though, only because it is sure to come out in a tone of annoyance, and because today really is my mum's birthday I am trying to cut the sass. So if she wants to spend it finding a lost memory, I will allow her to do so. Okay, I may be a little hungry. And tired. Yesterday, I had to take the overground from London to Bell Lane, where Isaac picked me up after work and drove me to my sister's. The entire two hour ride, my stomach was flipping up and down thanks to the quickly passing scenery. The motion sickness prevented me from reading my book, so I was forced to close my eyes and do nothing. Once arriving in Shenley, my family packed up my sister's MPV, and drove almost another two hours to West Mersea. Everyone was merciful enough to let me sit in the front and drive, easing the sickness a bit. We arrived in West Mersea around 8:00pm (Ava needed frequent potty breaks), stopped for food, checked into our Bed and Breakfast, and fell asleep. Well, I fell asleep for a few minutes before my dad's snoring started up. Maybe tonight I will convince Isaac to sleep in my four poster bed next to my parents, and I will share a room with Charlotte and the kids.

"Seaview!" My mother and Charlotte announce at the same time, breaking the silence and they laugh and shake their heads in disbelief that it took them this long.

Isaac chuckles, helping Ava dig a hole near our towels. "You guessed every combination of name besides that one."

"The sea, somehow we forgot the sea," my mother says, still snickering to herself. She stands, casting a shadow over and cooling me for a moment. "I don't know about you lot, but I'm starving."

It's me who jumps up next, dusting off my legs and shaking out my towel. "Yes, yes, yes. I needed food forty minutes ago."

"No wonder you've been so grumpy," Charlotte remarks. Her comments fly me into a weird déjà vu, one filled with a younger Charlotte noting my sullen behavior throughout all my teenage years until she, herself, entered the realm of angst and unexplainable annoyance. I wonder if I am thirty after all, and she twenty six - her one sentence soars me back to being fourteen and her ten, sitting on this very beach - I can only hope my overall attitude has improved since then.

Dad brings Freddie back to the group, taking a towel to dry his feet and wrapping a sweater around his shoulders. Freddie reaches toward me and my dad drops him into my arms; he smells of milk and sea salt, an odd yet comforting sensation. The family packs up and I do what I can with my free arm to carry a bag. Our group is slow ambling back to the car, especially since Ava is now bawling and begging to stay. Charlotte tries to drag her along by the hand, but eventually gives in and has to carry her to catch up. My sister walks ahead of me, trying to reach the MPV first so she can unlock it for us. Ava is peering over her back, still whiny with red splotched eyes and cheeks. I catch her attention and stick my tongue out, making a funny face. She stops the whimpers for a moment, working her mouth so as not to give in and smile—oh the beauty of being a stubborn two year old.

It is only a minute drive down the beachside before we reach the restaurant. Once in view, I recognize it: the small white clapboard building, outlined with blue and red benches overlooked by umbrellas to provide respite from the outdoor elements of sun and rain. Charlotte parks and we all empty out. For a Friday at lunchtime, the cafe is fairly bare, but by tomorrow the town will be filled with its share of visitors. We step inside and find an empty booth next to a window, facing the outdoor seating and colorful beach huts. Dad and Charlotte take charge to order the meals while Mum and Isaac wait with myself and the kids. Freddie is bouncing merrily on my lap, and Mum goes to fetch a baby chair for his meal.

Outside the window, a couple combs the beach, picking up pebbles here and there. At one of the picnic tables nearby, a little boy plays with his chips. I watch his brother kick him under the table, taunting him to tell their parents. How do I know this is his intention? I did the same stuff to Charlotte. "So," Isaac starts. Very rarely are we left alone together, and in all honesty, I have forgotten he was here. On the contrary, I will never forget what he has done to my sister. "Your dad told me Barney's is..." I stop listening, distracted by a mop of blonde hair sitting on an attractive man sitting at one of the tables. Across from him sits an older woman, jet black hair pulled back into a bun from her wrinkly face—the hairstyle is familiar. The glare from the window is making their features almost indistinguishable, but then recognition hits: Roman and Estelle.

They have meals in front of them, so I make a note to hurry out to say hello. Roman and I have shared company multiple times since the banquet last month, mostly meeting in pubs and clubs with Parker as our mediator. I've enjoyed the friendship we've built, tempered on the way we both balance out Parker: quieter, cheekier, more careful. He has earned many more points, so now Ellis sits at 5 points and Roman is at 16 points (disclaimer: these points may be mostly dependent on who offers to buy me a drink or escort me safely home, free of charge). Also, Ellis has been MIA for awhile. I imagine he entertained ideas of Parker dropping Roman sooner rather than later, and now has retreated back into himself.

"...you've been managing so well. Have you thought of starting another business?" Isaac is still talking, and momentarily I feel guilty for ignoring him.

"Another business?"

"Yeah, why not? Like a bookstore, or cafe, or something. You have all the experience." Isaac offers an encouraging smile, a kind smile. The bloke really tries.

"Hmm," I roll the idea around in my head, then ponder why has no one come back yet to save me from this torment. I steal a glance back out to Roman and Estelle, hoping they haven't left yet—now is the perfect opportunity to use them as an excuse and leave this trying conversation. It's hard to spot them: where they were sitting before, a new couple has taken their place, kissing across the table. They break apart and a breathless gasp escapes the clutches of my stomach: it's Roman and Estelle. Kissing. Roman and Estelle. Locking lips. Roman and freaking Estelle! They clutch hands across the table, Estelle speaking, then both get up from the table and take their rubbish to the bin. I turn my head, hoping they do not see me as they pass the window and head off.

"Are you okay?" Isaac asks, watching me carefully. "What happened?"

My mouth opens, but words are impossible to form. The image of them kissing races through my brain. Maybe I imagined it and Isaac has slipped something in my water that makes me hallucinate, then I remember he isn't you, Sherlock. I saw them kiss, clear as day, right at that picnic table. Lips were touching, moving. What about Parker? I had just accompanied Roman and her out on the town last week, and everything was normal—they were the ones kissing! But now Roman was just here, kissing Estelle: Estelle, who is twenty five years older with a son the same age as Roman. Estelle, who is Roman's partner - I correct myself: work partner. Though perhaps 'partner' is the right term after witnessing what I just did. If they feel comfortable kissing in public, who knows what goes on behind closed doors.

I shake my head, clearing my thoughts like an Etch-A-Sketch and starting over. First off: am I really sure it was them? ... Yes. Yes, I am one hundred percent sure it was babyface Roman and not so babyface Estelle. Roman's hair shone blonde as day, and Estelle's as dark as yours. Roman even sported the same jumper as last week: dark green, complimenting his eyes.

Okay, so it was them. Now, am I sure I saw them kissing? ... YES! Having had my fair share of kisses - you, amongst others - I know a hot snog when I see one.

Right, so, that solves it: Roman and Estelle were kissing. Now what do I do about it?

First order of business that comes to mind is: Ellis 5, Roman 0.  
  


After suffering through lunch, in which I seemingly lost my appetite, we take naps at the Bed n Breakfast, then drive to the dock for our sunset boat tour and picnic. The Lady Grace is gorgeous on the water, and orange streaks shining on the breaking waves under the boat. Though I get seasick - my stomach is weaker when under stress, if you can believe it - Ava sits on my lap the whole time to keep me warm and happy. We sing Happy Birthday to Mum and divvy out cake—even the captain takes a plate.

At one point the boat stills, silence ensues, and a needful tranquility transcends our ship. Naturally, my thoughts are coaxed to you: I would have loved to visit the sea by your side, Sherlock. Roaming the sand, watching the waves, maybe even holding hands (if I was lucky). Sighing, I make a conscious effort to not let your absence change this moment: I am content with my family, niece on my lap and leaning sleepily into my arms. Sherlock, you are watching this beautiful descent with me right at this moment, I can feel it. Our views are different, yours being heavenly and mine being earthly, but you are here nonetheless, because I ask you to be. Please, enjoy this moment with me. Wherever you are.

\---

_Two days later_

The remaining Saturday and Sunday in West Mersea are spent at the beach, the Nature Reserve, and fishing for half a day. My mum is joyfully exhausted by the time we hit the road back home. I drive for the first bit to offset the motion sickness. Also, it helps to do something while mulling through thoughts of Roman and Estelle. Two days later and the scene still hasn't processed properly. So far, my only two options seem to be either confront Roman or tell Parker. Roman has always acted kind towards me, and I consider him a friend. If I go to him before Parker, maybe he can explain the whole thing. He can tell me he was never even in West Mersea this weekend, or that Estelle has a young boyfriend who looks exactly like him, or anything that explains the bizarre events I witnessed on Friday. He better not lie to me. Isaac was, and probably still is, a liar. Once a liar, always a liar. Once a cheater, always a cheater.

On the other hand, if I go to Parker first.. Roman better run for his life. Parker may let Ellis walk all over her, but any other man who does it is a goner. Perhaps telling her is the best choice, just cut the connection quick. Besides, I don't want her thinking I hid this from her, or tried to bail him out. My family is nice enough to take a detour and drop me in London, though it tacks on an hour to their trip. By the time I'm back in London, 2:00pm on Sunday, my mind has changed again.

I spend the night ruminating all my options, over and over. At approximately 8:00pm, after I have scarfed down a small meal of soup and toast, another choice comes to the frontline: Mycroft. He met Roman and Estelle, and he must know something about their work together. Roman has neglected to talk much about the organization when we're together - which I'm now starting to think is for good reason - and Mycroft, who always know everything, must know something now.

It takes an hour of nursing a small glass of brandy before I am convinced contacting Mycroft is the right choice. Evidence of it being a good choice is: 1) He is all-knowing and all-seeing, and 2) I can put off confronting Parker until I know more information, while also avoiding an awkward conversation with Roman. Truthfully, I thought of these reasons when I first considered this option, but it took me an hour to persuade myself I wasn't settling on this option only so I could talk to Mycroft. Our contact with each other has been non-existent; I have not seen him since the banquet, and have not spoken a word since our gathering at my apartment two months ago. A dull ache grows in me, but I bite back any urge to miss his friendship - too much time has been wasted in these last two months thinking about him.

My hands leak sweat, making it difficult to grab the glass as I swig the last bit down. Okay, my phone is at the ready. I pull open our messages, looking at the last one he had sent: _I'll be there in 10. Do try to be outside on time._ Cracking a smile, I remember he was picking me up from work to take me to a quick doctor's check-up. Days prior, after one of my matches, I had been complaining about having to take off part of the day just to travel across London for it. Thanks to his generosity, I was able to be back at Barney's in two hours and save having to switch days with one of my workers. Strange how now I struggle to type a simple message when at one time we swapped jests in the back of the car. And how I miss Norman and his quick quips.

Focus, Noreen. _Mycroft, I need to talk to you._ I stare the message: is it too desperate? Like really, I do not _need_ to talk to him.

_Mycroft, I need to talk to you. It's about business._ Does the word 'business' sound too sassy, like I'm mocking him from our last meeting? That "need" really NEEDS to go.

_Can I talk to you about something?_ Oh lord, am I in secondary school again or something? I sound like I'm about to announce my coming death, or get him in trouble for being mean on the playground.

Deep breath.

_Can we talk? I need some advice._ Fuck no, that's a hard no. Damn the "need"!

After several more tries, and a refill of brandy, I settle on the message. I am nowhere near happy with it, but time is nearing 10pm. Here goes nothing: _It's Noreen. I could use some advice, and it concerns members of The Sea Greens. Can you talk soon? Strictly business, I promise._

I will admit, the last part is unnecessary. Still, the spiteful part of me hopes it strikes a chord in him. I press send and wait, knowing full well from experience that Mycroft is a late night texter. However, after five minutes of no response, I am starting to regret my decision. If he cared, he would have texted by now. The man is ALWAYS on his phone, he has definitely read it. Though it's just me in my flat, I blush in embarrassment all over. Being the last person to text is one thing, but being the first to text and then not getting a response tops the tower of shame. Anxiety pools at the bottom of my stomach. Swallowing, I fight back any bodily instinct to start dry heaving.

Setting my eyes on the kitchen sink, I dash over to fill a glass with water and sip on it, calming my nerves. It's fine, he doesn't need to text me back. I can make this decision on my own. I will go to Parker and—

A vibration shakes my phone lain on the couch. Am I ashamed at how fast I sprint over to answer it? Yes. But there is only one person who could be calling me. I take a breath to slow myself, then answer.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Holmes has agreed to meet with you tomorrow." Disappointment floods my body: it's Anthea. I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the caller ID. If I would have chilled out for a second longer, I would not feel so let down thinking it might be Mycroft - it clearly states "Anthea" on the screen. "Ms. Jacobs?" Her voice fills my ear again, and I snap back to reality.

"Yes, okay, tomorrow. Where—"

"A car will be sent for you." Her voice is irritated, impatient. So Anthea hasn't changed at all, how comforting.

"I have to wo—"

"The car will pick you up outside Barney's at 5:15pm."

Right, of course they already know that. "Okay, thank you."

"Is there anything else?"

I want to tell her that yes, why didn't Mycroft call me himself? Instead, I say no and thank her again, then end the call. I check my phone once more, thinking maybe he sent an explanatory text for why he had Anthea call me instead of texting me back himself. There's nothing. Slumping on the couch, I run through scenarios of tomorrow: potential topics for conversation, topics to steer clear of.. Do I ask how he is doing? Do I tell him my football team won a tournament last month? Or maybe we don't converse about anything at all, only Roman and Estelle. I promised him it would be "strictly business," but inwardly, I am hoping for more: my friend.

\---

_The next day_

Today, I am forced to pack a slightly bigger bag to take to work. Included is my lunch, a cagoule for when it rains later, and Mycroft's sleeve garters. In the rush of leaving my flat, he forgot to put the contraptions back on. I meant to give them back to him sooner, but handing them over at the banquet seemed like something he might sneer at. Now, I pack them at the bottom of my bag for the robot I am meeting with today.

Work drags on. Max distracts me by doing part of his school reading aloud when the shop is empty - I feel generous allowing for homework time, mostly because it was a constant burden on my younger self. And I don't mind H.G. Wells or Steinbeck being read to me. The clock on the wall and my wrist both move slower than a person in the self checkout stand at the supermarket. Mondays are historically slow, so there is no customer rush to fuss over. After I have eaten my lunch, cleaned the store twice, and Max finishes his assigned chapters, I absentmindedly weave together leftover flowers into a bouquet.

It's a melting pot of different buds and stems—drooping Blue Star, bog sage, blue Violets, dried wheat, and a dash of peach roses. The arrangement, when finished, looks like the sky meeting a field: blue clashing with earth, bright bumping dull. The blues are varying shades of light and dark, though not too sporadic that it's off balance. The dark blue of the just-about-to-wither Blue Star is reminiscent of the navy blue Mycroft often adorns. I take a moment to admire my masterpiece - a peace offering, of sorts - then steal a glance at the clock: only 2:17pm. Damn.

Eventually, the time reaches 5:00pm. I switch the "OPEN" sign to "CLOSE", and thanks to Max and I's constant cleaning, there is almost nothing to do besides count the till. All in all, I have my jacket on and bag over my shoulder by 5:11pm, four minutes earlier than Anthea asked. I bid farewell to Max and wait by the door for some sort of mysterious looking car to appear. It's not always the same make or model, but they hold the same air: importance, wealth, and tinted windows that are almost illegal. At last, one of these vehicles purrs to a stop outside the shop, somehow managing to find a spot during the busy hour.

After locking the door behind me, I enter the warm refuge of leather seats and Anthea's steely eyes. Before I'm buckled, she tosses a piece of cloth to me and it lands on the bouquet I brought. "Put it on," Anthea orders, nodding to the fabric.

I deduce we are headed to the dungeon office, much to my dismay. Not only is the concrete walls and poorly decorated interior very dreary and drab, but wearing the blindfold is embarrassing. "We really can't meet anywhere else? Or at least let me see where we're going. Who will I tell, really?"

My pleading is met with an insincere look of sympathy. "Mr. Holmes does not let just anyone come to this office. And if they do, they, too, have to be blindfolded." Now Anthea clicks on her phone, probably texting Mycroft to tell him how much of a pill I'm being. And I bet he will text her right back, no problem. Grumbling, I slip the fabric tight around my eyes as the car starts to move.

Like last time, I try to track the turns and twists, but it makes me nauseous to think about turning and twisting in a moving vehicle, so I stop myself. After some minutes, though I'm unsure how many, we pull to a stop. I am led, again, indoors to an elevator that moves swiftly downwards. And again, after navigating some halls, the blindfold is slipped off by a worker and I find myself standing in front of a familiar door with another bouquet in my arms. Why do I always bring flowers? I glance behind me and Anthea stops tapping on her phone to glare at me. "Well are you going in? Mr. Holmes is a very busy man."

_Mr. Holmes can kiss my ass_ is what I want to say. I am not here to visit the elusive _Mr. Holmes_ as she keeps calling him (by his request, I'm sure). I want to see Mycroft.

Turning the knob, I ignore the nausea jabbing at the bottom of my esophagus and step into the familiar room. Bookshelves, desk, armchairs, alcohol, Mycroft. He sits at a desk typing on a small laptop, a change from the bulkier computer that was in here before. When I enter, there is not even a single glance up at me: instead, after a few seconds, he simply closes the laptop and places it inside a drawer. Now he looks at me. And I look at him. The medium grey suit matches his eyes, but makes the small mop of brownish red hair on his head stand out. A deep purple tie drips down his chest, conjuring up images of long ago times in far off lands—he would have been a king, no doubt. He sits on his own throne now like some sort of royal figure, looking at me down his nose with a perfectly straight back and mouth.

"Sit." His hands motion to the armchairs across from him. Before complying - one must follow the Majesty's orders - I place the bouquet on the desk.

"For you," I squeak, setting it down then plopping myself gently into a chair. His eyes scan over the bouquet, then dismisses it by turning his head toward me.

"What have you come to tell me about The Sea Greens?" He leans back in the chair, one elbow on the armrest as a hand comes up under his jaw; the other arm taps fingers absently on the desk. He waits for me to answer, lips pursed.

_I'm doing dandy, thanks for asking. How are you?_ His stare pierces me—somehow he is looking straight into my own eyeballs, but his vision goes through me, like I am a ghost. He sees me, I know it, but something stirs in him that tells me he would rather me not be sitting in front of him at this moment. I love feeling wanted! Mycroft tips his head, indicating that his own patience runs thin and he wishes me to begin. I fear Anthea will come in and tell me to leave, so I clear my throat and try to speak.

I tell him the whole story from the beginning: how I originally met Roman, seeing him at the banquet, how we've become friends over the last month, and I finish with the doozy: he was canoodling Estelle in West Mersea! When I finish, Mycroft still sits in the same position, gazing with dull eyes. Finally, he shifts his body and tugs at his tie - he probably wore that thing on purpose, trying to intimidate me and all.

"How was the weather?"

"Excuse me?" I sputter. His question better relate to this fiasco somehow - I don't have time for his mind games.

"The weather, how was it in West Mersea?" His tone is casual, interested.

I arrange my eyebrows in a wacky form, dropping my mouth slightly as I attempt to piece together a coherent response. He wants to talk about the bloody weather? But of course, I comply. "It was surprisingly warm for September, though windy."

He nods his head, though I know he is rolling something else around in his mind. "And you enjoy visiting the beach?"

His curiosity is wearing me down, making me susceptible to opening up to him and missing old times. I want to tell him yes, I love the beach. The sea is my happy place, with open expanses of water and a mix of pebbles and sand peppering the feet. I want to tell him how, as a youngin, I would beg my parents to take me every weekend, and some Christmases all I asked for was a trip to the beach. To skip through the water, in rain or shine, was to be in my heaven, and still is. I yearn to tell Mycroft this, but instead, I respond simply. "Yes, it is my favorite place."

He glances down at the bouquet on his desk and I wonder if he thinks the blue is for the water instead of for him. I hope he drops the small talk and moves on. We are both holding back, not saying what we want to. His lips take seconds to open and close, then he inquires more. "And was your mother happy with the weekend away for her birthday?"

"Mycroft," I snap, and his eyes comes alive for a moment like inferno rising to the surface. The pleasantries are painful. "I came here for help. What do I do? It's strange, right? I mean Roman and Estelle are generations apart in age, but I guess I can understand the potential attraction. I mean, you look at Daniel Craig and he's still got it, but—"

Mycroft holds up his hand to stop me, sourness crashing over his features. "Ms. Jacobs," he sighs heavily, like he is preparing to bestow some sort of wisdom on my sadly impoverished soul, "adults have needs and—"

"Oh god, please stop." My groan halts his speech. "I know adults have _needs_ \- I am an adult myself." Mycroft wrinkles his nose in response. "I came here because I don't know what to do. Roman is supposedly dating my best friend, but I then see him kissing another woman! Do I tell Parker? Or.." My voice trails off, at a loss for a coherent solution.

He taps his fingers on the desk, chewing on the inside of his cheek and watching me. "I cannot advise you on what is best - I do not dabble in the art of friendship. It appears my knowledge is a lost cause in the discipline."

"Yes, Mycroft, I am fully aware of your lack of skills in the area of companionship." My tone is more bitter than I intend, as usual. But watching his nostrils flare and jaw flex is satisfying, it tells me he remembers the night in my kitchen. And I note he is letting me call him Mycroft, another win. He is battling internally - to be or to not by my friend today?

"Then I really don't know why you have called for a meeting today other than you are lonely and looking for anyone to inflict you infinitesimal problems on." His back straightens even more during the spat, the snobbish twist of his features growing ever prominent. Oh, he's proud of himself for that one. I choose to ignore the jab, deciding to wait for another time to strike against him. Instead, I plead my case even more:

"You helped with the banquet for The Sea Greens and you spoke to Estelle multiple times. Was there anything weird or off about them or the organization? Roman barely talks about work around me, but now I understand why—he's shagging his business partner!"

"Are your spidey senses tingling, Ms. Jacobs?" Mycroft snickers bitterly, narrowing his eyes with a look of lordliness.

"You read comic books?" The way I picture it in my head is hilarious, and I work to stifle a laugh.

"I enjoyed the cartoon as a child," he corrects, taking a moment to glance down as he gets lost in a memory. When he looks back up, his eyes are hard as rocks again. "Now if this is all the business you've come for, I request that you leave." 

There he goes again: hot then cold, kind then rude, interested then dismissive. Conversing with Mycroft is like jumping into snow after being in a hot tub.. then getting back into the hot tub when your toes are just about frozen off. Then back in the snow. Tub. Snow. Tub. Snow. It always ends with the snow. 

The door to the office opens and Anthea walks in, blindfold in hand. Somehow he has alerted her that this is the end of our meeting; the bugger is kicking me out. Fine, if he wants to act like this - cold and heartless - then I will act my own way, too.

"One more thing before I go." I dig in my bag and pull out the sleeve garters. "I think you left these at my flat." My voice is sweet and innocent, though I take pleasure in watching his cheeks redden as he steals a glance at Anthea before clearing his throat.

"Impossible. Those must belong to someone else," he breathes, iciness glazing his tone. 

I smirk. "Yes, perhaps they are from some other pretentious prick who undressed in front of me."

Have you ever seen gasoline catch fire and explode into flames? The cold exterior Mycroft displays is gone, replaced by a steaming volcano ready to explode. If he bites down with his teeth any harder, they are sure to break like glass. He stands out of his chair so fast that the bouquet shakes on the desk, and I myself am almost shaking with delight - so this is how he reacts to being embarrassed. 

Between teeth he grunts, "You are excused, Anthea. I will escort Ms. Jacobs home myself."

I stand and turn towards the door, catching a glimpse of Anthea with her lips pressed together suppressing a smile. She raises her eyes at me in.. _admiration_? I wink at her, unspoken chuckles and amusement pooling between us. Mycroft is behind me, and he holds out his hand to which Anthea bestows the blindfold in. Instead of tying it myself like usual, Mycroft takes care to do the honors. From behind me, he places it around my eyes, and the last thing I see is Anthea smiling down at her phone. I applaud my cleverness. Mycroft ties the blindfold so tight that I huff in discomfort, trying to loosen the hairs that he has ruffled. A warm hand touches my upper back and leads me through the halls, to the elevator, and into the car, never letting up.

Once we are driving for a few minutes, Mycroft commands me to take off the blindfold. It takes a minute to undo the vicious knot he has entangled, but finally I am free. I blink out the window, trying to get my eyesight back in order. 

"Are you trying to humiliate me?" 

Slowly, I turn towards the strained voice. Mycroft is no longer the red tomato he was in the office, but now a plain mushroom. He holds his umbrella, gripping it with all his might.

I smile cheekily. "Of course not."

"Why must you be so troublesome?" He bites his tongue, turning from me to watch the passing city. It is drizzly.

"Me?" I squawk. "You're kidding, right?

"I do not 'kid', Ms. Jacobs."

"Oh stop it with the ' _Ms. Jacobs_ ' _._ You haven't called me that since before Sherlock died. Calling me by a different name does not change our friendship, Mycroft. You can't distance yourself from me like some business transaction!"

"We do not have a friendship of any kind." The calmness of his tone sends me into a rage.

"No friendship? Really?" My insides boil, preparing words to send up and out of me like steam. "So you watching my football matches, that's not what friends do? Or what about taking my book suggestions? Installing cameras into my shop for me? Coming to my flat for dinner? Texting me your random thoughts at ungodly hours or random times during the day when you're bored? Saving my life? Giving me gifts? Buying me dinner? And how can we forget that you have admitted to being my friend once or twice? And don't get me started on what I have done for you."

He stares with no emotion. "You have done nothing except increase the amount of migraines I get. Do not mistake charity for friendship."

"STOP THE CAR!" I yell towards the front. Immediately the driver, who I assume is Norman, steps on the brakes. We are just north of Hoxton and the rain is pouring more than ever. I am glad I packed my cagoule. "How can you look at me and say that?" My voice cracks. Mycroft looks away, hands balled into fists. I wait expectantly for him to retort, though I really only ache to hear an apology. Exhaustion paints over my heart - I am so tired of arguing with him. Please, say something to defuse the tension. Don't make me leave, Mycroft. Be transparent, tell me the truth, tell me something that makes me laugh and jokingly swat at your arm while we go happily into the night together, as friends. But he says nothing, which to me, says everything. So I slip out and slam the door behind me. Once outside, I begin the walk home, but then I remember: Parker.

I hail a cab and hop in, directing them towards Parker's place in Camden Town. My thoughts are numb, unmoving, focused on the task: tell Parker about Roman. This was not my plan at all, and to be frank, I forgot the whole reason I visited Mycroft in the first place was for advice on the Roman and Estelle problem. But that's what anger does to a person - makes them lose their mind and forget what really matters. However, in the short time I spent walking home, I decided: a _real_ friend tells the truth. The verbal brawl that just took place is archived in the back of my mind, something for me to puzzle and obsess over tonight. I will replay all that he said, all that I said, and wonder for hours what comes next, if anything. 

Once outside her building, I phone Parker. She picks up with a tired voice, informing me that I have woken her from a nap. Checking my watch, the time is 7:15pm, an interesting time for a nap. She buzzes me up and I jog up the stairs, knocking frantically when I reach the top. Parker opens the door, dressed in sweatpants and a large sweatshirt with a high bun piled on her head. "Top o' the morning," I greet, stepping inside. The flat is a complete mess - papers, dirty dishes, clothes, and towels are strewn around, and it smells like sweat, weed and a lavender candle. Disarray is unusual for Parker, but I will nag her on cleanliness later.

"Would you like some tea?" she asks as the kettle begins to scream.

"No, I'm good." I go to sit on the couch and wait for her to join me, but have to move small, empty, plastic baggies out of the way. When she does come over, I do not beat around the bush: Parker and I have been friends for years, and there are no fake pleasantries to exchange. Again, we are _real_ friends. Do you hear that, Mycroft?

I clear my throat. "Listen, I came today because I need to tell you something." 

"You know, Parker is a unisex name," she says, winking at me.

"What?"

"It's a joke, Noreen. You sound so serious, so I thought either someone has died or you're pregnant." My mind flashes back to me informing her about your death, and how I probably said the same thing when I started that conversation. For some reason, this one feels harder to speak about. 

Ignoring her, I fill my lungs and prepare my announcement. "You know how this weekend I was with my family in West Mersea?" She nods to continue me on. "Well I saw Roman and Estelle there—"

"Oh yeah, they were away on business," she says, nodding and taking a small sip of her tea. 

"Yes, well, I um." My mouth is parched, and I have to swallow to keep speaking. "I saw them kissing." Her eyebrows furrow, and the confusion urges me on though my heart has dropped into my arse. "We were at a restaurant and I saw them sitting outside. I wanted to say hello, but then they.. they kissed." 

Parker goes stone faced, then her eyes widens and mouth opens before she shuts it again, holding in some reaction. After a second, she narrows her eyes at me and bites her lip. "You know, I'm sure it's nothing," she says, shaking her head and bringing the mug to her lips. I watch her swallow. "Roman and Estelle are close, obviously - I mean they work together. And Estelle is like a mother to him, always fluffing his hair and patting his face and..." She trails off, staring downwards as she works this out in her brain. Her head snaps up, and I wait for her explosion, but it does not come. "Why would she be okay with Roman and I dating if they were together? It doesn't make sense, Nore. I think you saw some other couple, or just imagined it."

"But I didn't, Parker. I swear it was them, snogging."

"Shut up," she suddenly spits, glaring at me. "They were not kissing. And even if they were, so what? Roman cares about me. People do weird stuff all the time. Just mind your own damn business."

"Parker, I'm just trying to help y—"

"I do not need you spying on my boyfriend. Maybe that's why Sherlock jumped, because you're so damn nosy."

"Excuse me," I hiss. At first I was caught off guard by her sudden defensiveness, but now the jab at you sends ammo up my veins.

She rolls her eyes. "It was a joke, Noreen. Calm down. God, I don't know why you're so sensitive about the bloke. You weren't even with him for that long."

The air escapes me. How dare she disgrace your memory like that, like your death was just some joke. "How would you know how I feel? You never even asked me about him after he died!"

"Because you're so dramatic. You barely knew him, seriously. Stop using his death as an excuse to be sad all the time. You just need a good fuck and you'll feel better."

"Why are you saying these things?" Tears are flowing quietly down my cheeks, but a roaring anger exists in my head, a sickly bile grows in my chest. Who is this person? Parker would never say these things. The real Parker would never.

And suddenly, I see more of her, who she is in this moment. Her hair is not wet from a shower, it is greasy from not showering. The bags under her eyes are not from being woken up from a nap, but not sleeping at all. The mug shakes in her hands, and she shakes under my gaze, though she speaks again harshly.

"I am telling you because you need to stop feeling bad for yourself. You bring all of us down, Ellis thinks so, too. And then you try to make us all sad, like how you're lying about Roman and Estelle just so—"

"I AM NOT LYING!" I yell, standing up and facing her. She sinks further into the couch. I catch my breath, straining to not give into the red anger that pulses through me. "I am not lying," I repeat, softer. "You can ask him yourself." 

I turn to leave, maneuvering through the disorder scattered in my path. "Noreen." Parker is still sitting on the couch when I face her, and hope grows in me that maybe some sense has kicked into her mind and she will drop Roman. And apologize to me. Her sunken eyes glare at me, wickedness teetering beneath the surface. "It's been ten months, right?" I nod, heart lurching in my body. "How does it feel to waste ten months of your life on someone who didn't care enough to stick around?"

The door slams behind me before I can see the satisfied smile spread across her features. Parker is unrecognizable. Once out on the pavement, I shed tears. For you, Sherlock, but for another person I have wasted these ten months on as well, with arguing and arrangements—perfectly arranged arrangements.

I think you can guess who I am referring to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noreen has had a rough couple months :'( I pinky promise this funk will not last forever, but we have to endure the storm with her!!!! Or maybe it will last forever.................... ;) You love being tortured by my writing!
> 
> Also - have y'all heard of the movie "The Father" with Mark Gatiss, Olivia Colman, and Anthony Hopkins in it?! It's supposed to come out soon, and I am SO EXCITED. I legit screamed when my dude informed me of Gatiss being in it. But also, the story is amazingly creative! Look it up, peeps. 
> 
> And other great movie rec - just watched "Soul" on Disney! TBH I knew nothing about it when I started watching it, but it's so good! Reminds me a little of Inside Out :) 
> 
> PSA: I start school and teaching again this week, so the spaces between updates will be increased again! Wish me luck so that I don't lose my effing mind this term !! 
> 
> Question: If you were going to replace Noreen's pick of Daniel Craig with some other actor or actress, who would it be? (No 'Sherlock' characters!) I have too many options.. but my top three picks are def Sterling K. Brown, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, and Ben Affleck (when he's in Gone Girl) !!! (These men, of course, come after Rupert Graves and all the Sherlock cast who take up like #1-#5. Rupert will always stand at #1). 
> 
> As always, y'all rock for reading this. Talking with all of you is the best, and I sincerely hope you're ready for the next twenty+ chapters we still have to go !!! In the words of Phyllis from The Office: "You have a lot to learn about this town, sweetie."
> 
> Cheers!
> 
> P.S. My Wattpad username is "drayizzle" and I have three Sherlock Imagines books on there if y'all want more of the Sherlock clan! Go check it out (disclaimer: the writing is from like four years ago, so no judgement lol).


	11. Eleven Months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: B-film level kind of action!!

_Eleven months after_

"Hey Noreen, it's Roman.. again. Give me a call back."

"Yo, Noreen, it's Roman. Let's meet up and chat over a pint. My treat."

"Noreen, Roman here again. I really need to talk to you. Uh, Parker told me what you saw, and I just have some explaining to do."

"Please phone me when you get a chance. It's Roman, by the way."

Voicemails like this have plagued my phone for the past two weeks. It seems word of what I told Parker last month has gotten out, and now Roman wants to explain. The voicemails are bad enough, but the text messages ping onto my phone like there's no tomorrow, causing an incessant vibration or lighting up of the screen during all hours of the night. I'm just happy the fool hasn't tried coming into Barney's. I have no clue if Parker and him are still together, nor have I heard anything from her. Ellis left on some vacation to America, and either way he has no more information on Parker than I do. Huffing, I stare down at the list of text messages from Roman:

_Want to meet? R._

_A pint sounds pretty good at this moment... or any kind of alcohol really. Lmk if you want to go!_

_I miss seeing you around! We should talk._

And now, my phone buzzes again: _Noreen, I really need to talk to you. I'm worried about Parker. I know I messed up, but I can explain everything, I promise. Please just give me like 5 min to talk! R._

"Ughhhhhhhhhhhh," escapes out of my throat, and I lean over the counter in Barney's.

"Sounds like something exciting just happened?" Evelyn pipes up while restocking a new shipment of greeting cards.

"You'd think ignoring someone's invitations for two weeks would send a clear message." A family walks by out the front window, the child skipping by with some kind of chocolaty drink in hand.

"Well have you tried saying 'no'?" Evelyn's nimble fingers place the cards and their envelopes carefully in each spot without a single crease being formed. 

"No." The mumble catches her attention, and she pauses her hand in midair, offering a sympathetic smile.

"I would try that," she says, eyeing me. "If you say no and they still keep pestering, then we'll talk about sending a clearer message, if you know what I mean." I know exactly what she means: Evelyn was once a lawyer, she can get me a restraining order quicker than you can say "stay the fuck away from me".

I could just say no to Roman, so easily. Just type it out, press send, and block his number. But the messages and voicemails weigh on my shoulders. Saying no to him feels like saying no to Parker, and I am not ready for that. Sure, her comment last month just about chopped me into a million pieces, but I recovered with the help of some new feline friends I picked up the next day.

\---

"Mister and Missus! Where are you two rascals?" I yell while entering through the door of my flat, thankful the work day has ended (except when you own a business, it never really ends). There are thumping sounds from the bedroom then two bushels of fur sprint towards me, circling my legs and mewing quietly. "What have you two been up to? You better not have gotten into my sheets again!" Of course, I don't really care. Dropping my bag next to me, I bend down and scratch behind their ears and down their backs. Missus - a spotted black, orange, and white tabby - kneads at my trousers and I feel her claws beating into my flesh in pleasure. Mister - Missus' brother, and a mostly orange cat with spots of black and white here and there - plays with the string of my jacket.

The two siblings are about two years old, presumed abandoned by their original owner since they were found locked in a small kennel outside the Humane Society International near my flat. Because of their bond, the Society refused to sell them separately and it seems no one wanted to take on two cats at once. That is, until I stepped through the doors last month. The topic of pets had broached my mind for quite sometime, but there never seemed to be any reason to buy. I was never alone, or at least I didn't mind being alone. But last month was too much. My flat felt both too big and too small. In 24 hours I managed to visit the Humane Society, find my feline soulmates, fill out an application, call my landlord for approval, purchase all the necessities for owning cats, and took them home.

They are settled now, having discovered their favorite napping spots (the bathroom sink, under my sheets, and the couch cushion closest to the telly) and picked out their favorite toys (plush mice and jingling bells that roll around the floor). When I make dinner they like to roll around my feet and attack my toes hidden in socks, or try to beg me for some of whatever I am cooking. Their adorable faces and constant "mewing" forces me to give in, though I forbid them to join me in the shower as they often try to do - one has to draw the line somewhere.

My phone vibrates and I pull it out of my purse, not expecting another text from Roman, but nonetheless unsurprised by it: _Noreen, can we please talk? I promise I can explain everything. I think Parker is in trouble._

Mister draws my eyes away from the screen as he kneads on my leg. "Down, you," I order, though it is actually me who bends down to pet him - they have me wrapped around their paws. "Well, what should I do?" Mister and Missus both look at me, then Missus pounces on Mister and they start fighting, playfully. "Yes, I would also like to attack Roman right about now," I agree, watching the wild twitching of their tails and bearing of their teeth. "But what if Parker is actually in trouble?" The siblings continue pawing at each other before Mister spots a stuffed mouse near us and decides to attack that instead. Now Missus' eyes grow black and she sidles along behind me, wiggling her hump before stalking and striking her distracted brother. "You two are no help." The fact that I only have two cats to consult about my issues is concerning, but there is no time to wonder about the state of my sanity.

And I must be completely insane because I find myself typing back to Roman: _Fine. Five minutes. I can meet at noon tomorrow._ Before thinking about it too much, I hit send. Hell will freeze over before I ever forgive Roman, but my curiosity about Parker wins out. That "what if" of her wellbeing looms over my head.

Roman's response is quick, too quick. He definitely had this text message saved in his drafts, ready to send as soon as I agreed. _Thank you, Noreen. You will not regret this. Meet me at the Pear Tree Cafe in Battersea and we can walk around the pond after, or see the gallery?_

This excursion sounds like it will be longer than five minutes, and I scheme to somehow slip Kahlúa in my coffee when he isn't looking. _See you tomorrow_ I type.

A _:)_ returns to my inbox, but I ignore it. There is nothing smiley about this meeting.

"But there is something smiley about little Ms Missus over here" I coo, spotting a colorful face watching me from the couch. Walking over, I reach down to stroke her head but she lashes out and attempts to pull at my hand with her paws, bringing it closer to her mouth so she can gnaw on a finger. Seconds later, she is purring and begging for me to scratch her in the sweet spot behind her ears, as if she had been this kind to me all along.  
  
  


Later, as I lay in bed, I ogle at the picture of you and I on my bedside table. It is a new edition, something I never thought of displaying until I visited Mrs. Hudson the other week. She has a photo of you, too, something John or Greg snapped. It shows nothing of your face, only the back of you, standing in a robe and deerstalker as you look out the upstairs window of 221B. Your hands are on your hips, head angled down in concentration at someone, or something, on the street below. Mrs. Hudson claims it's me you are looking at, but I disagree. There is an aura of mystery surrounding you, a pretense to the intertwining of our lives. Maybe you are watching some other woman walk away, but more likely it is a case coming or going, a person who needs to untangle the riddles in their lives, so they look to you.

Come to think of it, I do not know of any woman that came before me, if any. There was a small mention of _a_ woman, something John said in passing last February, only a month into your and I's relationship. You had been incredibly grumpy that day, moping around the flat and groaning about John using the wrong burner to heat water on for tea, then complaining that our breathing was making you feel claustrophobic, so either we needed to hold it in or leave. Thankfully the ringing of your mobile interrupted your angry tangent and Gregory Lestrade came the rescue, offering a case that was bound to keep your attention for two hours, at the least.

_As you rush to your bedroom to dress in your classic Consulting Detective uniform, John hurumphs and shakes the newspaper he is reading. I look up from my own reading choice (at that time, I believe I was stuck on Poe) and address the doctor. "He sounds happy to have a case, finally. Maybe we will have some respite from his tantrums," I tease._

_John nods, raising his eyebrows and making a long face. "For now, yes." He folds up the paper, preparing to dress for the case—being annoyed of you was no reason to miss out on the murders and mayhem. "I really do not understand how he has a girlfriend, and it's you, of all people. So kind, normal. I mean, seriously, Noreen.. Are you really up for this?"_

_"Once I learn the correct stove burners for heating tea, I think I will survive," I wink._

_"Yes, I hope so," comments John, cracking a smile. "And I think Sherlock does as well. The last time a woman—_

_"Let's go," you command, abruptly entering the living room again from the hall. A look passes between you and John, something unreadable but stern. You reach for my coat on the hook and hand it to me, waiting for me to stand and receive it, your careful eyes considering my every expression. You must have been listening to have interrupted at such an opportune time in our conversation. John avoids my eyes as we walk down the steps, filing outside of 221B one by one. He hails a cab while you stand close to me, quiet. I chew on my lip, curious about this other woman. I'm not jealous, per say, but interested. Another woman? How long ago? Who? Was she prettier? Smarter? Funnier?_

_"Florist." Your baritone voice interrupt my thoughts. I realize that John stands at the taxi, waiting for us with the door open, and you, too, stand and stare at me expectantly. "Ignore John. He knows not what he says."_

_"He didn't get to finish what he was saying," I remark, restraining to look at you. It seems John knew exactly what he was saying, and you had no intention to let him finish._

_"I am a man of the present, not of the past. And occasionally, I entertain the future." Your eyes are burning hot on the side of my face. "Right now, a case calls for me, and I am asking: do you want to come with me?" T_ _his question feels like doublespeak: you ask if I want to come with you, implying I am the present. You think nothing of past, meaning the other woman._

_I risk peeking at you in my peripheral and find blue eyes determined to pay me attention. It's impossible not to give in. "Yes, I will come. Every Consulting Detective needs a florist, right?"_

_You chuckle, laugh lines deepening around your cheeks. "Just this one, because I am the only one." Your face breaks into seriousness, then cocks slightly as you narrow your eyes. "As are you."_

Oh how easy it would have been for you to just come clean and tell me about this other woman. But I took your side-stepping comments as an answer: you chose not to tell me because she was nothing to you, at least not anymore. Just a woman.

Of course, when you got word of my previous fling, the world about burned down. This memory sends me to sleep with smiles.

\---

_The next day_

The weather is stormy and calling for several layers if I am to venture out in a park with Roman. The tube will take twice as long than taking a cab, but some money still remains on my Oyster so I opt for the cheaper option, deciding that I can take the extra time to prepare for the conversation, maybe even listen to some pump up music. Carrying any sort of bag sounds dreadful, and slipping my phone, earbuds, wallet, and keys into my jacket pocket is much more comfortable. Blowing Mister and Missus air kisses, I leave my flat at 11:00am, armed with an umbrella in hand, my hood pulled up, and rain boots on.

Rain has continually poured aboveground and the force of it has only gotten stronger during my ride on the tube. Out on the pavement, it blows me sideways while I walk with my head down. If this torrential downpour is any indication of how this meeting with Roman will go, I believe a Magic 8-Ball would tell me to "TRY AGAIN LATER". Even so, my boots splash through water as I maneuver a round-about and eventually enter the park. Past the rose gardens I go until I spot the circular cafe, outdoor tables up against the shore of the nearby boating lake.

As I enter the cafe, Roman is nowhere in sight. Granted, I am ten minutes early, but the boy really should try to be early if anything - he could use all the good impressions he can get. Me, on the other hand, I'll go ahead and order without him. The barista takes my order - two shots of espresso with some cream - and I stand near the windows and look out to the small lake. A familiar buzzing shakes my pocket and I pull out my phone: _Change of plans. Can you meet me by the Barbara Hepworth sculpture? R._

Inward groan. Damn you, Roman. Because I am not very familiar with this park - only having really visited the Pear Tree a handful of times - I ask one of the workers for walking directions. Thankfully it is only a five minute trek, but in this weather, I may as well just swim across the lake. Zipping back up my jacket, I take one last sip of my coffee before using it as a hand warmer while I head to the statue. Cursing Roman seems to also keep me warm, well, red hot on the inside. His inconsiderate behavior is infuriating, and he's lucky I choose to meet him halfway, if at all.

The sculpture is in sight now, but there is no Roman. As I get closer, I spot him down on the bank of the pond, tossing rocks in the water while standing under some coverage from a tree. He does not seem to notice my arrival, so I call out to him a few feet away. "Roman," I greet, stiffly.

"Noreen!" he hollers with a wave, caught off guard as he sways a bit to face me. The rain is making it hard to see him, casting a dark mist. His blonde hair stands out like a lighthouse in the ocean, long hair flapping around. "Thanks for coming. The rain is horrible, eh?"

"Yes. Do you think we should go back to the cafe?" Pointing over my shoulder, I hope he gives in. If I stay out here any longer, I will no doubt wake up with the sniffles.

He begins to shake his head, but with a large, goofy smile on his face. "No." The facial expression does not fit the answer.

"Um, okay. Why?" I watch his hands twitch as they grip restlessly at the bottom of his jacket. He is jumpy, stimulated, and still smiling. A lot. The thought of drugs passes my mind, but seconds before he appeared perfectly normal and charming-ish.

"Because you're coming with me," he grins. At that moment, a rather large man walks out from behind a tree off to the left, behind Roman. Okay, very odd. The man walks closer until he stands like a shadow behind Roman, though he towers over him. The rustling of sand perks my ears up, and I turn to see another rather large man walking up behind me, down the short path I just came. Now this is very, _very_ odd.

"I don't..." The last word is hard to get out. Not understanding is an understatement in this moment. Here I was, thinking we would meet for a coffee and I would listen to his pleading, maybe get some information on Parker, but instead a sickness washes over me. Something more sinister is at play. No one else is in sight, and though we are by a street, nobody drives by.

"You will come with me. If you try to escape, then, um, this guy will hurt you." Roman's unsure voice is alarming, especially since he still smiles, though I think he is trying to threaten me, I think.. My mind flips back to Anthony Carver, the bloke who actually scared the living daylights out of me. In comparison, Roman's demeanor is that of one of Mister and Missus' plush mice - that is if attacking me, or in this case kidnapping me, is what he wants to do. I am still hoping for a nice visit to Pear Tree.

"How.. will they hurt me?" I glance back and forth between the two lofty body masses. The one in front of me pulls out a small knife, a legit fucking dagger straight out of Macbeth. Behind me, the other pulls out a small pistol—now that's more Tom Cruise or Liam Neeson style. My skin crawls. Shit feels more real, suddenly. Where are the cars on the street? The walkers walking by? Rain pours, but even if someone were to drive by we would be mere blobs in their passing sight.

"Does that answer your question, Noreen?" Roman cocks his head, mouth spasming as he licks his lips and bites them. The gesture is disturbing, unnerving, creepy. "Now come with us. Do not make a sound. Do not yell, or talk, or try to communicate anything to anyone. If you come peacefully, you will not be hurt. If you don't.. well you don't want to know what happens."

The threat is well-intentioned, and part of me shivers as Roman motions to his posse to walk closer to me, to lead me out of the park and to, presumably, a car. However, Roman's threat feels forced and empty, like a low budget movie script. Half hearted. Unprofessional. Informal. Again, Carver could kick his ass. But the outline of the dagger and pistol in these men's pockets keeps me staring straight ahead, matching their steps as they lead me away.

I see now I have misjudged my surroundings. There is one car: a slightly run down navy sedan parked at the curb. There are some scratches and dents, but overall it appears safe (I mean, I don't know why I am worried about my safety in a car when I have two men with weapons on either side of me). The men lead me towards the car and someone presses a button to unlock it. I am shoved in the back, the Liam Neeson man with the gun sliding in after me. Roman gets into the passenger seat and the Macbeth dagger fellow readies himself to drive. "I know you love trips," comments Roman, buckling himself. Ah, yes, safety first says the kidnapper. "So let's take a little trip, shall we? You have already been to West Mersea," and he glances back at me with narrowing eyes, pausing in his speech like I might break into tears. And while I do want to, I don't.

"Yes, I believe we were there at the same time. It's too bad we kissed—whoops, I mean missed—out on each other."

The flaring of the nostrils tells me my comment has landed just where it needed to. Roman turns around to face the front and orders Macbeth to drive. We head south, towards Clapham. The time on the dashboard is broken, so I resort to checking my watch. 12:35pm. My instinct is to reach for my phone, which Roman has not asked for yet, but I don't want it taken away. Perhaps there's a way I can use it later to call.. _someone._ A name starting with "M" lights up in my mind. Now I am angry, though very nauseous. If "M" would have listened to me at our last meeting, then maybe we - no, sorry, I - would not be in this mess. Were there any CCTV cameras in the park? Not that it mattered, the weather was so dismal that any facial recognition would be impossible in these conditions. As we drive, I rest my head on the window, but face outwardly in case the cameras can pick up on it in the car. My attempt will help none, however it aids the pit of helplessness growing in my stomach.

"Do you want to know where we are going?" asks Roman, shifting his body around in the front seat.

"Erm, yes."

"You would like to know that, huh?" He tries to fix his face into an evil smirk, but instead he looks like a puppy again, still staring me down. My mind feels outside of itself, separate from the entity of my body. I can look at this situation and at my person from a third perspective, somewhere in the sky. My body's high alert signs are turned on: upset stomach, high body heat, quickened breathing. I tap my feet nervously and try to replay the scenes of the last hour, and the last few months. Dying does not cross my mind even though Liam Neeson has not let his hand off the gun stuck in his pocket. What I know right now is this: Roman knows I saw him kissing Estelle, and he is pissed.

"I'm sure you also want to know why I asked you to meet me today?" Roman's eyes are alight with mischief, though it falls flat under his mop of blonde hair.

"Yes," is all I respond, dismissively, because what else do you say to a person like Roman right now? Of course, if this was you Sherlock, all of these men would be disarmed and potentially dead. And you would have deduced the hell out of them. I am not you, though. If I reach for the gun in Neeson's pocket, Macbeth might reach back and stab me, or maybe Roman has a weapon hidden somewhere. What would Sherlock Holmes do? My door is locked, so any chance of jumping out will be pointless. Neighborhoods pass by on either side of our windows, and we have officially left the metropolitan area of London, still heading south.

"You remember how Parker and I met, right?" Roman is staring at me, craning his neck to lock eyes while he recounts the story. I nod as I recall they met through her coworker. Roman continues, looking pleased with himself already. "Well, that coworker who introduced us is a.. close friend of mine, and close friend of The Sea Greens. And The Sea Greens, I should say, is not the organization you might think it is." He pauses again, for dramatic effect. Does he expect me to gasp and beg for an explanation? I want him to keep talking, but he seems to be playing some mastermind villain part in a movie; now is when he reveals his plan to take over the world, and I, the protagonist, must stop him. But no, this is not some movie. It's real life, and it's fucking scary. Roman is still waiting, watching me while he fidgets nervously with the armrest he leans over. "The Sea Greens is part of an international drug and embezzlement operation."

Again, I give no reaction. Why play into it? Though maybe I should, to learn more. This news is shocking in some regard. I don't know what I was expecting him to say. But Roman's babyface distracts from any of this being real, he looks too much like a little boy playing an imaginary game. "And how does this concern me, or Parker?" I ask.

Roman laughs, a laugh that is loud and rumbling. "Let's just say Parker is quite the computer programming junkie.. and man junkie.. and junkie in general. Give her what she wants, and she gives something right back." He winks. "It was easy for her to get through the security clearances and access the information needed, all to make this day possible."

"What is today?" My stomach is doing flip flops as we leave the comfort of homes and venture down a lone motorway, but at the least the rain has stopped. My nails dig into the seat beneath my bottom as cascading waves of anger, anxiety, and adrenaline course through me. Parker was nothing but a means to an end. For what end? The road in front of the car passes on, weaving through patches of fields and forests.

"Today is the day we fly off," Roman waves his hand towards the sky. We? I hope he is only referring to Macbeth and Neeson, and Estelle.

"Fly off with what?" I have gathered my bearings, willing to utter words to gain more information. This ride has surpassed a short half an hour trip.

"Besides a motherload of drugs and money.. you. And Parker's computer programming friend that set us up."

The blunt honesty of his response is striking. He tells me this as if I am not a confidant and not a hostage. "What about Parker?"

Another laugh erupts, this one more high strung as it exits his throat. "She is not a worry to me anymore. You are, and that other computer programmer. You know too much, as does he."

Knowing too much implies two things: either we will be killed, or taken along on their crime spree. I don't know which is worse. "Where are you flying out of? Surely you could not execute this crime at a normal airport."

Roman eyes me intently, stroking his peach fuzz chin. "Very good, Noreen. The plane is waiting at a farm - belongs to a friend of a friend. It pays to have connections. And speaking of," there's that roguish glint, "you seem to have a very important connection. I do hope you did not share too much about West Mersea."

"What are you talking about?" My heart hammers passionately.

"At first I thought it was odd that Mr. Holmes would be so focused on you during the banquet, watching your every move, watching us laugh. But then I asked Parker, and she told me you were dating his brother, the famous one who died. Of course, Mr. Holmes is nothing if not a minor pawn in the British government. Still, any word you spoke to him could be told to the higher ups..." Roman pauses, deep in thought. I take this moment to catalogue how little he must know: Mycroft occupies anything but a minor spot. The less Roman understands about Mycroft's position, the better. It seems Mycroft's hiding in the shadows has paid off, for the time being. "So tell me, what is your relationship to Mr. Holmes? Did you tell him anything about Estelle and I?"

Gauging Roman is difficult - he never wipes that grin off his face. I ponder if this is a trick: either he knows I went to see Mycroft, or he doesn't. If I tell the truth and he didn't know, I would be giving him more information. But if lie and Roman knows I'm lying, well Macbeth in the front seat might just make me King Duncan. Oh lord, I am really not made to be in this situation, but I muster the strength to speak confidently. "No, we're barely acquaintances. He only contacts me if it has to do with.. Sherlock." Saying your name is hard at the moment.

Roman's glare attempts to infiltrate my brain, and I wait to hear his response. But he just huffs, slightly put out. "Oh, um. Well, good thing you didn't tell him, or I'd have to kill you." His voice teeters on breaking. "How much longer until we get there?" He directs the question at Macbeth in the front seat.

"Five minutes."

I check my watch again, Now seeing that it's just past 1:00pm. We have been driving for a little under an hour, and though we pass by small towns and villages, it is nowhere I recognize. Eventually the car pulls into the driveway of a farm, passing clucking chickens and baaaaa-ing sheep. There are rundown pickups and tractors stuck on the grass, and no one comes out to greet us. We drive in a semicircle around an open field, not yet planted with anything. Because there are no trees, I see a midsize plane parked way up the road. As we approach, there are tubs stacked outside of it like children's blocks, mismatched and messy. The door to the plane is open and there are steps leading up to it. The car rolls to a stop and a woman pokes her head out from the door of the plane and waves to greet us. Estelle.

Her hair is out of the bun and flowing over her shoulder, freshly chopped at the ends. She is wearing a tunic and tights with some clogs, quite the tasteful outfit for breaking laws. "Take her out," orders Roman before exiting the car. I try to open the door for myself - never have I needed a man to let me out of the car, though I don't mind - but it is locked from the inside. The fucker put child lock on my door. I wait for Macbeth to let me out, and when he does, Estelle steps away from kissing Roman - must this be the position I always find them in? - to come and greet me.

"Noreen, dear, how nice of you to join us." Dark red is paved over her lips and her teeth shines like a vamp's. "Please, come inside, acquaint yourself with the plane. After all, it is where you will be staying for some time." Her giggle is to die for. Macbeth nudges me to move forward as Estelle and Roman step away to speak, whispering in each other's ear. No doubt they are talking about a nice shag they might share later in the evening. I climb the steps inside and find the plane is quite homely, built with fine leather seating. Though, there sits a man in one row of the seats with a bloody rag pressed to his head. Planted in the row across from him is a woman of smaller build than I, holding a machine gun almost as big as her. Upon entering, both people look up at me. The man's eyes widen at me... hopefully? The woman snarls and motions for me to join my fellow prisoner.

"Took them long enough to get her here," mutters the woman as Macbeth stumbles by and walks towards the open doors of the cockpit. There are a pair of legs sitting on a chair in there which I presume are the pilot's. Who agreed to fly this bloody plane?

When I am seated, I steal a glance at the poor bloke next to me. He wears a faded school hoodie and plain trousers with sneakers. His head is leaned against the window, rag pushed on his temple. He must feel my eyes because he looks over and gazes wildly. I seize the moment to try and speak to him. "Why are you—"

"Shut it," threatens the woman. She pushes the barrel of her gun into my stomach. "No talking." I sit back and wait for her to remove the pressuring nuzzle from my abdomen. It really is a big gun. When she does, I feel my arm jut against something hard in my pocket: my phone. My thoughts about this being a very unprofessional kidnapping is confirmed: what kind of criminal doesn't take a hostage's phone? Or even check for one. I must find a way to use my phone and call... someone. Maybe that "M" fellow.

Footsteps sound and voices approach the inside of the plane. "...and we should leave now. There's no use waiting, Estelle." Roman waltzes down the aisle of seats towards the cockpit and I hear Estelle bustling around behind the seats. When Roman returns, he pauses before me. "Are you impressed yet?"

"By what?" The presence of my voice is miraculous. I am scared shitless.

"Well you didn't make it easy, ignoring my texts and all. When you finally responded, we had to be ready to go. Less than 24 hours and we have prepared to pull this whole thing off; to leave, with the drugs and money." He cocks a smile. "I hope you don't mind the aisle seat. Brian, here, begged for the window. Ready for takeoff?"

"And how lucky you are, dear. Parker wanted so badly to join us on this trip. How unfortunate she was not up to coming," chimes in Estelle as she walks into view. Roman's smile falters and he looks away. Oh, so now the little devil feels guilty? Parker is somewhere. The word "dead" floats through my mind, but I wash it away. I do not know if she is dead. And if I stay on this plane, I may never find out. The gravity of what I am tied to hits me, full force.

I have been kidnapped. By a person I thought was my friend. But actually, he prefers selling drugs on the international black market and steals money from god knows who. And does he even care about the environment? Probably not! Oh god oh god oh god oh god. Where the fuck is this plane going? And who is this guy next to me? Why is he staring at me like I'm crazy?

A hand touches my shoulder and I about jump out of the seat, my body shaking itself like a blender. "Noreen," hisses Roman. "What are you—why—what's wrong?"

The nightmare still exists in front of me, in the shape of a young blonde headed demon.

My stomach. Oh no. My hands travel to my mouth, trying to stop the coming vomit.

"She's going to puke, get her out of here!"

"Take her outside!"

"It's going to get on my shoes!"

Through the flurry of voices I am thrust out of the seat and towards the open door. Whoever grips my arm leads me hastily down the steps before shoving me to the ground. I hit the dusty road, just packed dirt over rocks, and let the secretions flow.

"Disgusting," jeers someone behind me.

I retch out my coffee from earlier, then keep puking until there is nothing but air and bits of stomach fluid. Though I am empty, my body cannot stop its natural inclination - sorry, it's _nervous_ inclination. When one is younger, and even throughout their life, one often ponders how one might respond in a moment of crisis. They may flee for their life, stay and fight until the end, or freeze and be taken. I always considered myself a fleer, one to run rather than to fight. Today, though, I learned the truth: I am a puker. No primary school kid would ever want to admit to that, but here I am, becoming any box office Hollywood hit's worst nightmare: a powerless, helpless protagonist, if I even am the protagonist. A side character might suit me better.

"Is she done?" comes from the plane. It's Roman.

"Hold on!" yells the voice behind me. "Are you done?" they ask me.

Spit flies from my mouth a few more times, trying to clear the bitter taste left in the crevices of my teeth and the back of my throat. "Erm.." I push myself off of the ground, trying to stand. My body is weak, shaking from lack of water and addition of stress. The thought of entering the plane again and flying to my unknown, and most likely horrible, destiny is enough to send my body into convulsions of dry heaving again.

"A few more minutes," hollers the person behind me. I move my body away from the pile of liquid from the prior puking lesson, deciding to rest my head against the cool ground. Deep breaths fill my lungs as I measure them out in seconds. _1........ 2........ 3........ 4...—_

"Get in here Ferguson, now! Grace phoned! Cars are pulling into the driveway of the farm. Come on, come on!"

A hand grabs at the collar of my shirt, ripping me off my peaceful laying position.

"No, leave her! Just come on, get in! We need only to close the door!"

Fading footsteps run as a deafening sound fills the air. Lifting my head and turning, the plane is alive. Neeson (actually, Ferguson?), who was the one outside with me, has just made it up the last step of stairs as he begins to pull them inside and close the door. Already the engine is rumbling, shaking the wings of the plane and sending air pulsing around my head. It's hard to stay up as wind cuts my eyes with dust and loose rocks. Slowly the plane starts to move forward, back down the road we drove in from. Though I am pushed against the ground, I can twist my head and face to watch it take off. At the other end of the road, starting to round the long corner we came in on, are a line of cars—dark and sporty and sleek.

The plane moves quicker now, taking on slow speed as it builds down the makeshift tarmac, which is also the same straightaway that the black cars are speeding down. As the plane distances itself from my laying body, it gains momentum, taking off into the sky eventually and missing the tops of the black cars by several meters. Some of the cars stop, but at least three of them continue on towards me, stopping a ways away. The deafening roar of the plane engine is far off, but now an eruption of voices surrounds me.

I am off the plane. I am safe. I think. Who are these people rushing towards me?

"Get her up!"

"Where's the medic?"

"Ms. Jacobs, are you okay? Can you hear me?"

"They abandoned the car, get the prints to confirm any additional passengers. Lee is missing, must be on the plane. Next destination they will find him. Already in place for the plane's arrival."

My body is face down on the dirt, choking on sand and spit. The voices sound professional, curt and courageous. I attempt to lift myself with an arm, looking around at the few faces staring down at me. Men and women in black, some kind of field agents.

"Ms. Jacobs, did they hurt you?" A woman kneels down, bracing my arm and back to help sit me up against her knee. I cough, clearing the gunk gathered in my throat. The shaking has minimized itself to tiny tremors, mostly rocking my stomach.

"No, no, I just got.. really sick. They had guns and a knife and.." I swallow, getting nauseous just thinking about it. "And they were going to take me somewhere. And I was going to be some sort of.. worker? Prisoner? I-I don't know why-"

"Does your head hurt? You have a history of concussions."

"No, no I'm fine. Just sick." And scared, though I hold that part back.

"We're going to get you in the car and take you to get checked out, okay? And there is someone here—"

"Noreen!" The shout draws my head up to find Greg Lestrade jogging towards me from one of the dark cars that pulled up.

"Greg? Is this Scotland Yard's—"

"No, erm, I was asked to be here in case you were, um, left off the plane." He scratches his neck nervously, glancing around at the surrounding agents who have all stopped what their doing to glare and shake their heads at him.

"Wha—"

The woman kneeling with me, a redhead, jumps in. "It will all be explained to you later, Ms. Jacobs. Please, go with the Detective Inspector. You are safe now." 

Greg's eyes burn into mine, apologetic and worried. He helps to lift me up, moving one of my arms over his shoulders as he guides me towards an open doored sedan. Another woman stands by and closes it behind us after we shuffle in. The car purrs to a start and we are on the move. I glance out the window as we pass by, noting the ongoing investigation of the navy car I was driven in. Pockets of agents mull around, talking to each other and on mobiles.

"Do you need anything?" Greg asks, interrupting my buzzing mind. He is leaning over the middle seat towards me, eyebrows knit. 

"Besides an explanation for everything that happened to me over the," my watch reads 2:00pm, "last three hours, some water would be nice." He grins at my shaky voice, then pulls a fresh bottle out of a bag sitting at his feet. He hands the bottle to me, watching as I open and take a swig.

"Unfortunately, the explanation will have to wait until we're back in London." Greg is looking out the front window, then his eyes cut to the driver: stoic and silent. No doubt she is listening, making sure he says nothing past what is allowed.

"Why?" 

He sighs. "Those are my orders. I don't like them, but I have to follow them."

"Aren't you a Detective Inspector? You make the orders."

He chuckles, laugh lines crinkling the edges of his eyes. "Let's just say a certain person in the British government has made these commands. Government trumps the Yard." His response sends tingles down my spine and cramps to my stomach. Subconsciously, I knew it was Mycroft who sent the people in black. Consciously, though, there was no time to consider why or how or when he knew this would happen.

"Detective Inspector, please," corrects the driver, sending a death glare through the rearview mirror. "Do you remember your instructions?"

"Yes, yes," mumbles Greg, looking agitated. He mouths "I'm sorry," to me, and I return a sympathetic look. We sit quietly, staring out our respective windows as we travel north, back to the city. Greg clears his throat, adjusting himself in the seat as we continue. 

"How are you?" I ask, curious if we can talk about anything as long as it's not about a certain government fellow. 

Greg appears taken aback that I ask him this, then relaxes. "Getting by, as usual." His lips work, trying to get out some speech. "It's.." he sighs, "it's not the same without him, as you can imagine. But we manage." 

I nod, unsurprised by the conversation being directed towards you. After all, you are my only string of attachment to Greg. How else would I have met him? 

"And yourself?" he returns the question.

I chuckle. "At this very moment, not too good. But I adopted two cats, and the shop is fine, and I play football on a women's team.." Biting my lip, I don't know what else to add. "Being picked up in cars like this have become a frequent occurence."

"Is that so?" Greg's smirk falters to a slight frown. "Does Mycroft—"

"Detective Inspector," hisses the driver. Greg groans and rolls his eyes, "She mentioned him first." 

The driver clears her throat. "Yes, but you have specific rules. Ms. Jacobs does not." 

Greg makes a mocking face at the driver's back, then winks at me. "I guess my conversation is restricted, for now. Fancy a drink at the pub? I haven't talked to John in sometime, but maybe the old bastard will join us and—" A ringing from Lestrade's pocket interrupts. He fishes it out and holds up a finger, groaning as he reads the name. "Yes?" he asks. A low mumble comes from the other speaker. "Are you serious?" he roars. "I was just—" The murmured voice interrupts Greg, and his eyes cut to me before looking away. "You can't do that." Pause, murmuring. "Fine." He ends the call and faces me. "Sorry about that, erm.. Anyways. We'll catch up sooner or later," he grumbles, then goes to look out the window with pouting lips. 

A suspicion grows in me that the other person on that call was none other than your brother, being his usual controlling and nosy self. "Excuse me," I lean forward and try to catch the attention of the driver. We are nearing the outskirts of London. "Where are you taking us?" 

"Ms. Jacobs, unfortunately I cannot share that information with you." Her voice is sweet like syrup, but the answer is strict. "But we will be arriving in twenty minutes. And you will need this." She reaches into the passenger next to her and hands me a piece of fabric. A blindfold. 

I lean back into the seat. Greg is still sulking by the window, so I reach and tap him on the shoulder. "We should reach out to John and get together. A drink will be nice. Invite whoever else, like Molly, though I don't know know her too well. I think it would be good." 

"Ms. Jacobs, please keep your hands to yourself. It's a safety hazard." 

Now it's my turn to roll my eyes, but Greg nods in agreement. I believe he has my number, and if not, he can reach out to John. Perhaps if Greg invites him then John might be more keen to go. As we take the motorway into the city, we near the Met. The driver pulls over and Greg gets out at the curb in front of the looming building. "I'll, erm," he glances at the driver who watches him like a hawk, "get in contact with you about that, erm, thing." His hand reaches up to his neck, raising his eyebrows. "Good luck, Noreen. I hope you feel.. better. You're in good hands. Well, safe hands, not really sure if Mycroft is good—"

"Leave us, Detective Inspector." The words of the driver is enough to send Greg walking away from the car, grimacing at me. He enters through the glass doors, greeting some officers near him. "Before we leave, Ms. Jacobs, please put on the—"

"I know the drill." I take one last look at Greg's disappearing form, then slip the fabric over my eyes.

  
When we arrive at the mysterious, never-before-seen carpark of Mycroft's dungeon office, I am led out of the car by guiding hands and we follow the same trek to the elevator before it takes us down below ground. Once we navigate the usual hallways, my blindfold is untied and I am led into a room. There is the same hospital bed and doctor from the last time I was here. Woman, black hair, tight bun. "Ms. Jacobs, please take a seat. I would like to examine you briefly, just to make sure you are in tip top shape." She smiles, but it does not meet her eyes. I step forward and someone walks in behind me, closing the door. I turn to look at them - how rude to join a private appointment - and find Mycroft standing there. 

His three-piece metallic gray suit is shining from the fluorescent overhead lights. His tie is burnt orange, tucked neatly inside his waistcoat. There is a flicker of acknowledgement, a slight nod towards me, before the doctor leads me to the bed. She advises me to sit down, then does whatever doctors do: tests my eyesight, breathing, heartbeat, and other stuff I do not understand. But the entire time, I am staring at Mycroft. Besides the initial meeting of our eyes, he has not looked at me and chooses to focus on the movements of the doctor. His stance is slanted forward, and I want to correct him and order him to hold himself high. Like he always does.

"Ms. Jacobs, your medical records indicate you have not had a routine checkup for sometime now. I realize you would visit a regular doctor for this, but I can perform the checkup and it can be added to your medical information right away." 

My eyes have not left Mycroft. He still will not meet me halfway and look at me. How does this doctor have access to my medical records? I guess I am looking at the answer. 

"Sure, why not," I mumble. 

"Here is a gown for you to wear, so we can complete the full check up. And I will need to ask you some questions.." She trails off, glancing towards Mycroft standing at the door. Mycroft nods curtly before exiting out of the room, a dollop of pink crawling up his neck. The doctor turns away while I wiggle out of my clothes, which I am now realizing are caked with dirt and smell slightly of throw up. I throw the gown over my head - having left my bra and knickers on - and sit back on the bed, waiting for the inspection to begin.

When all is said and done ( _You are one healthy woman," the doctor informed me_ ), I am handed a pile of new clothes. They are not mine, but when I hold up the trousers and shirt the sizing is perfect. I slip into them and am amazed by the comfortable hugging of my hips and accuracy of the fitted top across my chest. Either this is a very accurate estimate, or Mycroft has been snooping more than just my medical records. The very thought of him perusing my drawers or, god forbid, deducing my sizes from looks is enough to stain my face pink with mortification. Perhaps my sizes were listed in my medical file? Sure, because the last time I was at the doctor, they really asked me what size I was? No, Noreen. I know that is not true, but it is the only truth I can cling to right now. 

"Mr. Holmes would like to see you now," says the doctor, still facing away from me as I make sure every button is buttoned and every zipper zipped. 

"I'm ready," I croak, desperate for water to fill my drying mouth.

The doctor offers a kind smile as she opens the door for me to walk through. Once in the hallway, she motions to the door I know leads to Mycroft's office. She stands behind, letting me open it for myself. She must realize I need a moment to breathe, to gather, to enter. "What's your name?" I ask, searching her lab coat for any name tag. I decided not to ask her name during our last meeting, but the examination and the fact that she is the one to tend directly to me after these moments of crisis makes me desire to thank her personally.

"Jillian," she answers. I don't know whether this is her real name, but I accept for the time-being.

"Thank you, Dr. Jillian." 

She smiles, finally letting it reach her heavily hooded eyes. I turn and enter through the door of Mycroft's office, refusing to knock or think or do anything else besides move through this next obstacle. He sits at his desk, elbows on the table and face buried in hands. When he hears me, he snaps up, rubbing away the glimpse of stress I seemed to have walked in on. For a few moments, we only look. At each other. His gaze is tiresome, lacking the usual luster of anger or mischief or smugness. I, on the other hand, must look like a mad woman. But there is relief, relief because this is familiar territory: being with Mycroft, in Mycroft's dungeon office.

Clearing his throat, he stands nears the stand of alcohol near his desk. "Would you like a glass?"

"Mycroft," the break in my voice stops him mid-pour as he fastens his sight on me, a hunter watching his prey's every move. "I'm hungry. Can we—can I—I just really need some food. And water." 

"Oh, yes dear. I am very sorry. Food is often not my..." he trails off, an etch of worry lining his brow. "I'll call the car." He digs in his pocket for his mobile and dials a driver, probably Norman. After a minute of arranging, he grabs a wallet from one of his drawers. I watch as he remembers to grab something else, meandering back around his desk to pull out a piece of fabric. I don't fight as he stands behind me and ties it around my eyes. His hand does not leave the small of my back as we leave his office and go through the halls. Memories of last month spill around in my head - us exiting the office, his hand on my back, then a fight in the car. Classic Noreen and Mycroft scenario, if you ask me. But right now, I am too exhausted to have a roasting session.

Once we are riding through the streets of London, I am told I can remove my blindfold. It's dark now, hours having passed while underground light remained the same monotonous blue tone. "What are you hungry for?" he asks beside me in the backseat - our usual arrangement.

"Any recommendations, Norman?" I call up front, though the divider is up. Mycroft knocks on it and Norman rolls it down. I ask him again, earning a small grin from the old man. 

"What food are you in the mood for, Ms. Jacobs?" 

I consider carefully. Really, I am in the mood for nothing except space filled in my empty stomach. No tastebuds are activated in eager awaiting. The lights of London stream by us, and the happiness of being back at home washes over me. 

Home.

The cats!

"Take me to my flat!" I lean toward Norman in the driver's seat. "I need to go home. My cats, they've been alone for hours!"

"Yes ma'am," responds Norman, taking the nearest turn to head towards Hoxton. I lean back in my seat, relieved to have remembered Mister and Missus. 

"Will you eat something there?" asks Mycroft. 

"Probably." I have not looked at him, though I know when his eyes are on me. We do not speak: me, because I am too tired, and him... I don't know why he is quiet. For once, maybe, he is respecting my wishes. Our ride remains silent until Norman is parked outside my flat building. "Thank you, Norman," I say.

"Yes, thank you. I will call when I am ready to be picked up," adds in Mycroft. I want to bite back and say I never invited him, but choose to hold it in. There is something comforting about the clack of his shoes next to mine, escorting me safely to my flat.

After unlocking my front door and stepping inside, I call out. "Mister! Missus!" Their food bowl is not empty, thankfully, though they are low on water. Immediately I replenish their bowls and glance around to find them. They are easy to spot, though, rubbing against Mycroft's trouser leg as he stands just inside the doorway. His hands are in his pockets and he frowns down at them. He must sense my watchful eye because he looks up. 

"You willfully adopted them?" His lips are pursed.

"As if you didn't already know," I remark. If the man knew I was due for a routine check up, the adoption would be easy to learn about.

"Yes, your clothes had cat hair attached to the edges."

Ignoring him, I slip off my shoes and head towards the kitchen. First, I fill a glass of water. Then, I take out a bowl of pasta from the other night, hoping it won't taste like fridge. "So, are you going to tell me all about it?" I am talking about the whole shabang from today - Roman and Estelle, the plane, where to find me. The microwave spins my bowl of pasta around while I face Mycroft, arms crossed. He clears his throat, stepping closer to me. I put up a hand to stop him - physical distance is important to maintaining emotional distance. "We can sit at the table," I say, pulling my warm bowl from the microwave and setting it on the table. "Do you need anything?"

His head shakes, no. I have nothing more to say, so I wait for him to talk. And in very Mycroft-like fashion, he starts his ramble.

"We knew of the security breach right away - from the very moment your friend, Parker, hacked in. Of course, we had already gathered information that two rookie drug traffickers and embezzlers would be visiting England under the guise of an environmental activist group. Normally we would nip this thing in the butt, put out the flame before it could turn into a fire. But they had such a thoughtful plan: a banquet with government officials? How creative. So I thought, I'll let this play out. I'll see where it goes. Allowing the banquet to occur was dangerous of me, we found that many members of government were becoming.. involved in the promises of Roman and Estelle. And when I saw you with Roman, I knew you had become a bigger stake in this than I originally planned. After you came and told me about Estelle and Roman, I saw two possible outcomes: you tell Parker, Parker friend tells Roman, and they get spooked and leave the country. The other outcome was you don't say anything, and Roman and Estelle overstay their welcome here. This would have required much more intervention on my part, because eventually we would have to get them to leave so they could reveal their destination to us, presumably where other traffickers were flying shipments to." He pauses, finally taking a breath. I have inhaled my pasta, letting it settle in my stomach. If this story did not involve me being kidnapped, I would truly enjoy it more - what a great plot for a thriller movie!

"We continually intercepted their communication, finding out that you were to meet Roman at the park. We assumed he would take you hostage, so the plan went into motion. Send some agents to the location of the plane, and send some to the arrival place."

"What do you mean?" I cut in.

"I mean, M16 agents are currently awaiting the arrival of Roman, Estelle, and their flying crew at an undisclosed location. Arrests should be happening in," he glances at my wall clock, "approximately twenty minutes."

"Why not arrest them at the place the plane was parked? You let them get away for no reason."

Mycroft smirks. "Sometimes the dramatics are fun. Let them grow some confidence, let them think they just escaped the hands of Britain's defense. It makes for interesting confessions later on."

"They could have killed me." This is not a statement, but an accusation. He could have let them kill me.

"Do you really think I would just let that happen?"

"Mycroft," I sigh, closing my eyes and taking deep breaths. When I open them, he is watching me curiously. "This is now the second time you have willingly put my life in danger. And for what reason? Just so you can have some fun and prove you can save me?"

He rolls his eyes. "This is not some high level crime lord, Noreen. It's not Moriarty. You do realize this was Roman's first attempt at any sort of plan resembling world domination? The boy is an amateur, and an embarrassing one at that."

"You're telling me. He didn't even confiscate my phone."

Mycroft scoffs. "You laugh, yet you didn't try to use it to call me?"

My defensiveness kicks in. "People with weapons were watching me the whole time! And besides, I couldn't stop throwing up long enough to even try to escape. Well, actually, throwing up was the way I got off the plane... And how did you know to send Greg? Didn't you assume they would have taken me on the plane to that drop-off destination with them?"

"Lestrade was assigned to meet you in the field and escort you home - I figured a friendly face might be helpful. Had you actually been flown to the drop-off sight... I would have met you there myself." Mycroft's face tinges pink, his lips pressed tightly together as he looks away from me. I smile and shake my head. The man is an enigma. 

"Why do you do that?" I ask. 

He glares at me. "Do what?"

"Stop being my friend. You always save my life, and then you're a complete dick to me. And then you save it again, and then you're back to insulting me, ignoring me, telling me we aren't friends. But here you are, Mycroft, sitting at my table and divulging the truth: you would have flown to a top-secret location just to make sure I was okay and not alone. Why can't you pick one? Friends or not?"

His throat bobs and I watch his eyes swirling with colors: dark gray, cloud gray, a slice of ice blue. "Noreen," he sighs, heavily. "There are factors at work that you do not understand. Being your friend is—"

"And another thing," I add in, preventing him from speaking any further. I am afraid he will tell me bring my friend is literal hell, or annoying, or insert any other sort of bad adjective. "Why does this stuff keep happening? Why did someone stalk me and try to kill me? How is it that my best friend becomes involved with criminals? And how is it that you are tangled in every part of this?"

He scoffs, eyes calculating. "Would you rather me not be tangled in it?"

"Oh god, see... ugh. This is not about you, Mycroft. I am simply stating that these are not normal occurrences in a person's life. And I, well I am a normal person. I deserve a normal daily life."

"You gave up 'normal' the second you became involved with my brother. John Watson shares a similar sentiment." Mycroft's face twists again, morphing into another version of himself, this one softer, but stern nonetheless. "Situations like today happen every day, Noreen. But it is people like me who prevent people like you from finding out. Ignorance is privilege, is it not?"

"Well now people like you are bringing people like me into it," I groan. 

He piles on the sarcasm for his next line, a bitter smile piercing his mouth: "Would it suit you better to be abducted by terrorists next time? Or do you prefer smugglers of cultural artifacts that sell them on the black market? I can put in a good word for you, let you experience the world in a new way."

Shaking my head, I try not to laugh. Damn this man. Damn this man and his snarky comments and his dry personality. Damn the fact that I'm not even mad at him right now. Really, I am grateful that he sits across from me. Being in his presence puts the day's events almost to a close; he has leveled me, saved me, humored me. His own smile tells me his is enjoying this, too. Our banter has returned, though much lies below the surface. I want him to apologize for calling our friendship a charity when I know it is anything but. However, tonight is not the night for what could very well turn into a yelling match of insults, ending with one of us crying. Probably Mycroft. 

Tonight, I just want to sleep in my bed, where I know I am safe and taken care of, with Mister and Missus snuggling into my neck and taking up half the mattress space. But one more thought remains on my mind. "Where is Parker?" I ask, picking at a stain on the table. 

His smile has disappeared, replaced with worry. "A rehab facility. You can visit her in a couple months."

"And when will I see you again?" The question escapes, though I knew it wanted to. I am desperate for his friendship, though I do not want to give in too easily. I must remind myself to start over with him, go slow, do not get sucked into the suit and sarcasm.

Mycroft is frozen at my question, lips moving in unspeakable - nay, unformable - words. His answer is slow, requiring a casting of his eyes down towards the table, then back up at me. "Soon, I hope."

Missus chooses this as the moment to sprint into the kitchen and fly onto Mycroft's lap. Immediately she tries to stick her nose inside his jacket, sniffing around and exploring where she can. Much to my surprise, he runs a finger down her fur, eyes following her careful moves. 

"You like her," I comment, listening for the deep purr leaving her throat. 

The cheeky bastard glances up, cocking his head and staring at me down his nose. "No, I believe it is her who has taken a liking to me." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter felt like running a marathon! But then I think about how there's still 19 chapters left to write and I'm like damn, I have 19 more marathons left to run. Good thing I love every second of it !!! :)))
> 
> Question: If you could solve any kind of case with Sherlock and John what would it be? (Be creative as you want!)  
> I am all for trying to find missing people! There are so many missing people podcasts I listen to. I truly believe Sherlock could find them all! And I would love to be a part of one!
> 
> Hope you all are staying healthy and hopeful! I don't know your location (mine is America), but sometimes it can be difficult to be either of those things. I hope this story provides some kind of respite! 
> 
> Cheers!


	12. Twelve Months (One Full Year)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of suicide.

_ Twelve months after _

"Next time, bring your own umbrella," sneers Mycroft.

"Making you share yours is much more enjoyable," I reply, smiling cheekily at him. "And I didn't know it would rain!"

His eyes glide over my outfit from bottom to top, glaring at me when he is done. "You're wearing a rain jacket and rain boots, Noreen."

"Fine," I step out from under the umbrella, "don't share with me then."

A frown glazes over his lips and he glares at me down his nose. "And what kind of gentleman would I be if I did that?"

"A much more enjoyable one, maybe. Instead of nagging, we could actually appreciate this walk."

His elbow softly digs into my side, a sure sign that I need to shut up or he will no doubt have me thrown over the edge of the railing we walk next to. We are nearing the end of our walk along the Thames, enjoyable for the most part besides the pouring down rain. I, for one, find no trouble with the falling drops. But Mr. Grumpy, on the other hand, expects the outdoors to bend to his every will and need; as you can surmise, he expects this of everyone around him as well.

So much for taking our friendship slow. After last month's make-up session (it's hard to stay mad at someone who continually prevents you from dying), we resumed our normal activities of seeing each other. I must explain, though, that the Mycroft and Noreen way of visiting is not like you might think. In a normal friendship, one friend invites the other to hang out and the other friend accepts. Our friendship is much more.. subtle? One of us (usually Mycroft) will ring the other and ask for a favor. Mycroft's favors consist of complaining about a book I gave him to read and requesting a new one immediately, prompting a surprise visit to my flat or Barney's. Or he calls to tell me I should not be walking home alone at night from a pub or friend's house; " _ Haven't you learned the world is not to be trusted, Noreen? _ "Always, a familiar metallic car will pull up next to me, I'll step inside, and he'll scold me because " _ How were you supposed to know it was me in this car? It could be anybody," _ he would say,  _ "another stalker or low level drug lord." _ But it couldn't be anybody, only him, watching and waiting for me to be alone so he could scoop me up safely.

My favors, on the other hand, are more accidental. Occasionally I will let slip in conversation that I am in need of some kind of transportation and Mycroft will have it arranged before I even finish the sentence. I don't mean to use the poor man for his car, but he frets until I give in, claiming that Norman will be on my side of town anyways. Which I know is a lie. Sometimes Mycroft is waiting in the car when Norman pulls up outside of my flat or Barney's, but lately he has been absent. He will text me about work, saying he is swamped, and I text him back to wish him luck. I don't know what being busy looks like for an important governmental figure, though if it's anything like the morning of Mother's Day, I understand what he means by busy.

His recent lack of attendance is what led us to walk the river today, or at least that was my guess. There was no formal invitation from him, just an urgent call in the morning telling me he had business to take care of in Hackney and my flat was on the way from where he was located at the moment, so he could pick me up and then we could take a fanciful walk on the Thames path in Woolwich, you know, because it's on the way. Woolwich was definitely not on the way, and it took us forty five minutes just to cross the river. We had stopped briefly in front of a bland building, which he walked in then walked right back out of a few minutes later. I did not ask what the business was, accepting that my place was as his friend and not a nosy personal assistant.

"Would you ever go bungee jumping?" The question comes as I consider what would happen if he actually threw me over the edge, or I tripped and fell over. The first one is more likely.

He sighs, disappointed. "Why must you inquire about topics such as this? Your questions provide no greater aide to humanity."

It's true - he hates when I broach subjects that don't have to do with how important his job is, or how we can better London's safety. But honestly, the man's scant ability to entertain leisurely questions is horrifying. I have taken it as my personal duty to loosen him up and take his mind off of the wellbeing of our nation for a few minutes.

"It's a simple question, Mycroft. If you can't answer that one, at least answer this: if you could visit anywhere in the world, where would you go?"

"I  _ can _ visit anywhere in the world," he remarks with an upturned nose, pausing our stroll to look over the railing at the river. Because he holds the umbrella, I stop next to him and mimic his whimsical gaze out across the Thames, our bodies side by side as we rest against the rail.

"I would go to..." my mind clicks and clacks, dreaming up my wildest adventure spot. "Somewhere warm, perhaps Central America. I want to swim in the Pacific. I love beaches, you know, so visiting some place that I can dig my toes in the sand, ride the waves, be warm without wearing so many layers." I let my imagination go with the wind, flying me away to sun rays on my arms and salty water in my hair—

"Middle Egypt." His answer comes abruptly, but I accept it happily.

So he does think about things like this... I look over at him and he shares in my gaze, smiling slightly and biting on his tongue before speaking again.

"There is a village called Dayr El Bersha, and many others surrounding it. Any of those will do—just something outside the city limits of tourism. History is something I find.. fascinating. And more so, Egyptian history. An unchaperoned venture of the tombs and reading the hieroglyphs without understanding what they actually mean, well, until I can work out how to understand translations afterwards." He pauses here, looking out at the river once more. "Laying eyes on an actual tomb, well, that would be quite—" He sputters, stops. Yes, relaying emotions is quite difficult for him. "Quite fun."

"Please Mycroft, do try to contain your excitement," I chide playfully. He scowls momentarily before picking up a smile again. A thought crosses my mind and I feel the urge to speak it, which could be a good sign or bad: "Perhaps we could go to our separate ends of the world, then meet somewhere in the middle."

"The whole idea behind leaving the country is to leave you, Noreen. Can you not take a hint?"

Before I can slap the living daylight out of his chuckling mouth, another voice sounds from behind. "Noreen?"

My head snaps around like a dog being called, searching for its owner. I curse my instinctive response when I see who it is that has beckoned me: Rueben. My ex.

"Rueben," I greet. He is across the path, a few feet away, so I step forward and depart from the railing. Mycroft doesn't follow, leaving me to stand in the rain with only my hood as protection.

"So it is you," he chuckles, though nothing funny has been said. He always had a way like that, laughing at jokes that I never seemed to hear. "Thought it was you from behind, then I heard your name and.." Rueben fades out, but not before starting up again, more lively, brown eyes cataloguing me up and down. "How are you?"

"Good," I reply, the classic response. The surface level response. The response that hopefully indicates I have no desire to carry on an awkward conversation.

"Good." He chews on his bottom lip. His dark hair is swooped to the side in a stylish manner, but matted down from the rain. "And your family?"

"Very good. Um, Charlotte just had another baby. His name is Freddie, he's adorable," I gush.

"Ah, finally another boy in the Jacobs clan," he laughs. "Your dad may very well have a chance of survival."

"Yes, just maybe." The conversation dies down, and I realize it's my turn to re-gift pleasantries. "And how are you?"

"Good," he nods, smiling without a bearing of teeth. White athletic socks sneak up his tanned calves, a part of his style well known to me. From the other clothes he wears - trainers, shorts, zipped up lightweight jacket - my mind presumes him to be on a run. Rueben was always active during our relationship, and when we did spend time together outside of the bedroom, we would often play football together or go on hikes. But that was ages ago.

"Well, I will let you get back to your run." Searching for ways out of conversations is my specialty. Water is beginning to seep over my hood and drip into my face, collecting puddles on my shirt. "It was nice to catch up."

"Yes, indeed." His eyes dart over my shoulder towards where Mycroft stands, then back at me. "And if you want, we could catch up more another time, you have my number still?"

"Mhmm." I dismiss him with a wave of my hand and my turned away shoulder, not bothering to let him say anymore. Yeah, when hell freezes over I will contact him. Turning back to Mycroft, I find his eyes focused on a small stain on the railing, eyebrows wrinkled and mouth clipped. "Well that was awkward, and unexpected," I breathe, glancing over my shoulder to make sure the coast is clear. Rueben's form is long down the path now. "Shall we go?" My stomach rumbles with hunger. It's now 1:00pm, well past my expected lunch time. Mycroft nods silently and we start our walk back towards where Norman has parked.

Seeing Rueben tosses me back to two years ago. In my view from the present looking at who I was, it is evident I was barely living. Little Noreen, busying her nose in pollen and looking the other way at her own apparent unhappiness. Despite the urging of my sister, it took me too long to human-up (I hate the term "man-up" - more men should "woman-up" for gods sake) and end the already dying blossom of Rueben and I's relationship.

"Why did you split?" Mycroft's voice is quiet, yet still retains the usual force of curiosity and edge of eagerness he addresses me with when inquiring after my personal details.

"I never told you we dated."

He looks peers sideways at me, hand still gripping the umbrella between us. "He asks after you, your family—obviously a close connection, but not any longer. There's been some kind of break in the relationship. And the fact that he has to check if you still have his number—"

I lift my hand, waving away his words. "Okay, okay, I get it. Your deductions and all that." The growing smirk on his face is noted - he loves to show off. "If you must know, our relationship turned purely  _ physical _ after the first year. We didn't do much talking with each other, or rather, he didn't talk to me much." To avoid making eye contact, I allow my attention to be caught by a runner and her dog up the path from us. My hands are growing damp, mouth desert dry in this wet air.

"And that's a problem for you?"

His question catches me off guard and calls up my defenses. Yes, that's a problem for me. Is it not a problem for him? Does he often enter into relationships where there is only sexual gratification instead of an emotional one as well? When he very well expected to have the emotional one? I withhold these questions, though, labeling them as none of my business and completely irrelevant to anything I need to know about Mycroft Holmes. Whatever he does behind closed doors is fine by me. Nothing to stick my head into. And how I decide the standard for my relationships is none of his business either. And he can just sod off—okay stop, Noreen. Breathe. It's a simple question. He is in no way implying anything, just respond. I opt for an honest answer, shameless: "When I crave an emotional connection and only receive a physical one, yes, it is a problem for me."

The runner and her dog pass us, and since there is nothing of interest left to hold my focus, I steal a glance at him. It seems he has found an interest in the river beside us, his gaze locked onto the infinitely moving water. He clears his throat.

I thank the heavens that we stumble upon Norman and the car right then, saving us from continuing in a painfully speechless conversation. Mycroft opens the door for me, allowing me to slide in under the safety of the umbrella. Once he is in, Norman speeds off - I think my hunger can be sensed throughout the car.

"So," I begin, "tomorrow you will see your parents?"

"Yes. A visit with Violet and Siger."

"You mean mummy and dad?"

He glares at me, unamused. "And you will be..."

How kind of him to let me finish the sentence on my own. I rack my brain for a second before remembering. "I will be visiting  _ him  _ in the morning, with Mrs. Hudson. Then onto drinks with Greg and Molly in the evening, maybe John. I must confess, I don't know Molly too well."

"I don't remember you mentioning plans with them." His tone is bored, much like how he used to speak to me. "But I suppose it's good you spend time with  _ normal  _ people."

"Thank you for your approval."

The traffic has cleared somewhat and Norman is able to get me home in a fairly decent time, although my stomach has begun to cave in on itself. There are many positives to spending time with Mycroft, but the one negative is that he never eats. You were the same way, Sherlock.

How you Holmes men retain your perfect complexion is beyond me.

\---

_ The next day _

It seems the sky drained itself of liquid yesterday because today is suspiciously dry. I fully expected to awake to pelting rain on my window, but was met with dull silence. The skies are still pouting with overcast clouds, but that's what to be expected during a November day in London. But it's not just any November day, it's  _ your  _ November day.

"He never liked flowers before you, dear," Mrs. Hudson comments as I set the bouquet down at your grave. White lilies: innocence. White roses: youthfulness. White orchids: eternal love. White chrysanthemums: death. Sky blue irises: hope, new beginnings, and your eyes.

While I paced inside Barney's early this morning, having barely slept a wink, I threw together fits of crimson and purple, the clashing of sorrow and sadness. Six bouquets. That's how long it took me to realize that I have spent the last year living in colors of grief. Wiping my eyes, I set aside the bunches of jewel tones and set to work on the opposite. I took a breath to imagine you—not my grief and I—you. I started with your eyes, and my hands reached for the irises. Your eyes, Sherlock, oh how I would have liked to take a dip in them. When we first met, I thought about how your eyes looked like oceans. Very quickly they became my favorite coastline, the beach I most wanted to visit it and pick up seashells on.

The next four choices of flowers took me ages. I knew the blue needed to stand out, to capture my attention just as you did. My mind circled around what I usually create for people in mourning: lilies, orchids, chrysanthemums, carnations, gladiolis, roses. I opted for the classics, you being a classically unclassical man.

When I emerged from my flower arranging state, I had recreated you in flower form, brought you back to life. Did you know I have been without you longer than I was with you? What an interesting fact to roll around the mind. Ten months spent as your florist, then twelve months as just a florist. Oh how time flies when you're lonely.

"I really do miss being his landlady," coos Mrs. Hudson, drawing me back to the present time where we stand in front of your marble grave. "I always fretted about not being his housekeeper, but what I wouldn't give to clean up after his mess one more time." Sniffling cuts her off and she dabs at her eyes and nose.

"Yes, he was quite good at making messes," I chuckle. Surprisingly, I have not cried. Staring at your name etched in stone does not make me relive your death. It's the memories keeping me up at night that stab me in the heart repeatedly.

"But I guess we never truly know what's going on in other people's heads, do we?" As she says this I watch her eyes swell with tears and her lips tremble with sorrow. She is speaking what we have all been thinking: what made you jump?

When I was doing visits with Dr. Davies, there was a certain boundary I never let her cross. Every meeting I felt her stepping closer, trying to test the waters of my memories. Every person has a threshold, and mine just about burst anytime I thought of the weeks and days leading up to your jump. The entire day prior to your jump I didn't even lay eyes on you, nor on the day of. This explains my inability to remember any sort of specific last moment with you, because I never had one. I never said goodbye with the intention of never seeing you again.

You jumped on a Sunday, November 20th. Normally I refrain from working on Saturdays, but Carl and Eileen had requested the day off together and Max was already gone on a trip. Thus, I was busy at work while you were busy on some kind of case, a case that went  _ badly _ , apparently. When I texted you after work, hoping I could come over, you only responded:  _ No time for you. Important case. Stay at your flat. _

Some might be hurt by your abrupt bluntness, but this was my new normal with you. That text felt normal, my night spent alone felt normal. You seemed normal.

The next day—Sunday—my family was planning to visit London. Mum and dad had some paperwork to do for Barney's, and I was to treat Charlotte to a movie and ice cream while Ava stayed with Isaac.

We watched Footloose, that American movie about dancing. My phone was on silent, lighting up unknowingly in my pocket the entirety of the movie. When we exited the theater I remember Charlotte could not stop talking about Miles Teller. While she gushed about his good looks and good moves, I checked my phone to find over twenty missed calls, all from Greg or Mycroft. There were none from you or John, and immediately my mind went to the case you had been on for over 24 hours. I chose to call Greg back, trusting his kindness and patience more. Maybe you and John were in a standoff? That's what I hoped for, not venturing in thought to something scarier.

_ "Hello? Noreen?" He sounds out of breath. _

_ "Greg, yes, hello. What's going on? You and Mycroft called me about a million times - I was in the movies." _

_ "Erm, Noreen..." There is mumbling, like his hand covers the receiver, and then he comes back on. "Can you come to Scotland Yard?" _

_ I glance at my sister who waits impatiently by the car that Isaac is picking us up in. "Um, well it's not really the best timing, I'm with my family. Is something wrong? Did something happen on the case?" My mind races with all the potential possibilities: bullet through the arm, broken leg, concussion, taken hostage, ripped coat, lost scarf. _

_ I was not prepared for what he said next. _

_ "Noreen, he's—" Greg Lestrade's voice, which was usually calm and husky, now cracked into small sobs, "he's dead. Sherlock is.. dead. Please come to..." _

_ The next words were blurry. The next days, even blurrier. Something about kidnapped kids and chocolate. A fellow named Richard Brooks. A popular newspaper titled:  _ "Suicide of Fake Genius." 

I do not know what exactly happened on November 19th and 20th of 2011. One day I was working at my flower shop and thinking about how I would beg my sexy, murder-obsessed boyfriend to take me to the beach next weekend. The next day, while I'm watching a movie about legalizing dancing for a small American town, you jump from a roof.

So yes, Mrs. Hudson is right. What goes on in people's heads?  _ Funny little brains _ , as you used to say.

"Oh, Noreen. You were so loving to him, dear." Mrs. Hudson's arms wrap around my body that is now shaking with tears, though I do not recall beginning to cry. Despite the fear she might break, I lean into Mrs. Hudson and let her hold me while we both stare at your impeccable white marble stone. "I bet he was thinking of you in his last moments," she whispers, patting my head and handing me a tissue.

\---

After a much needed lunch, served by the queen that is Mrs. Hudson, I take an accidental three hour nap. I did not cry anymore after visiting your grave, and visiting you actually relieved some of what pain I unknowingly carried on my shoulders. The bouquet helped, summing all of what you were into a beautiful mesh. Selfishly, it also reminded me that tomorrow goes on without you, just as the last 365 days have. This day will be difficult every year, but I will always bring you flowers. I will always bring you back to life in my heart and mind.

Greg has requested that Molly and I meet him at a pub in central London: Chandos. After arriving and slipping inside, I spot striking silver hair a few tables away. Next to him sits someone who I can recognize as Molly Hooper.

"Greetings," I announce, sliding into the empty seat at the table.

"Noreen, happy to have you," smiles Greg.

I nod at him, then turn to Molly. "I think we have met once or twice, but very briefly."

"Yes," she smiles, not fully meeting my eyes. She appears quite jumpy, uncomfortable. "You were Sherlock's girlfriend." She chews on her lip.

"And you were someone he relied on greatly for his cases," I comment, remembering him mentioning her in connection with dead bodies.

Her face grows warmer, nodding with a small grin. "Yes, it was nice of him to always call on me for those jobs, felt like he trusted me," she mumbles.

"He did, definitely," agrees Greg.

"Did you get a hold of John?" I am eager to know how he is doing, but not willing to ask him myself. I feel as though I have bugged the man into oblivion, and for all I know my number could be blocked.

"He said 'no, thank you,'" mutters Greg, with a grimace. Reaching out, he pats my arm. "He'll come around, Noreen. All in due time. Today is a hard day."

I nod, though a much darker truth storms through my mind: or he won't come around. Ever. And it's a hard day for all of us, the man does not get a free pass to blow off his friends who are also hurting.

"Care for a drink?" asks Molly, diffusing my building temper and bringing my back to earth.

"Yes, god, I need one," I sigh, and we chuckle together. 

"And then he started sending these texts to everyone at the press conference. And every text he sends is in complete disagreement with what I'm saying!" Greg throws up his hands and we all laugh. We are on our second hour of sharing stories about you. "And he couldn't even remember my name. He called me Gavin and Graham, but never Greg!" This throws us into another bit of laughter. Once we have recovered, Molly launches into a story about you and a riding crop. Through her telling of memories, I'm starting to wonder if she had a crush on you at some point. Oh Sherlock, I know how innocently (and purposefully) charming you can be - I hope you did not lead the poor woman on!

Although I was absent during the time of all these stories, they only work to make me feel closer to you. It's not that I imagined you this different person before I showed up, but to know you always were so brainy, inconsiderate, and musically talented... well my heart goes soaring even further up to the heavens for you. And laughing helps the heartache; it sews back up the gaping hole you have left us.

"Well one time," I start, recalling a memory of you I forgot I held, "he asked me to thaw something from the freezer and—"

"I didn't know he cooked," interjects Greg, eyeing me with wide eyes.

"Oh trust me, he doesn't," I chuckle. "You didn't let me finish - he asked me to thaw a  _ hand _ . A severed freaking hand!" Our table bursts into laughter, chortling over our drinks.

"And how did it taste?" asks Molly.

"Thankfully we didn't eat it, but apparently I took out the wrong hand. Let me tell you, 221B almost went down in flames."

_ As I sit in 221B, busying myself in a novel, my mobile buzzes. My assumption is that it's you because, well, who else would call me? When I answer I am pleased to hear your baritone vocal cords, though what they are telling me is quite confusing. _

_ "You want me to take a ham out of the freezer?" I ask, assuming I heard you wrong the first time. _

_ "No, a hand. With five fingers." _

_ "Um, okay. And why?" I stand and walk towards the freezer. If my memory serves me right, I had just been searching through here for some ice cream the other day, and while I never came across the frozen creamy goodness, I also never encountered a hand. _

_ "We'll be home in twenty minutes and John can explain then. I will be too busy working on the hand." And with that, you hang up.  _

_ Left to my own devices, I open the door of the freezer carefully, afraid the hand might jump out and grab me. After searching through some half eaten bags of frozen berries and a few TV dinners, I spot a finger on the top shelf, and then another. Cautiously, I reach up and swipe away some built up ice, then it comes to my attention that there are two hands on the top shelf. Both are pale, though one has mauve nail polish, and the other is blank. Because you didn't specify, and because I like the manicure of whoever's hand has the polish, I decided to thaw the mauve one. _

_ Twenty minutes later there are quick foot patters up the stairs. I am sitting in your chair and paging through a book on the "50 Best Places to Visit in Ireland'' when a mass of black coat and curly hair swirl through the door and into the kitchen. A few seconds after, John is in tow. _

_ "Hello, Noreen," he smiles, exiting out of his jacket and displaying it neatly. His hair is a bit of a mess and shoes caked in mud, but overall energized -  _ the murderer's high _ as I like to call it. "Doing alright?"  _

_ "Yes, just reading about Ireland. I haven't visited much, but I would love to spend some time—" _

_ "FLORIST!"  _

_ The yell from the kitchen is like an eruption, causing both John and I to jump and rush towards you. From my view in the chair, you had only been standing at the table and getting a start on inspecting the hand. When we near, you grab the severed hand and hold it up, pointing its fingers at my face. "Why did you take Peggy out of the fridge? I wanted Oscar!" _

_ "Who? Sherlock, they're just hands. And you never said which one, so I just picked the one with the nail polish because it looked nice." _

_ Your eyebrows crinkle and your jaw clenches. "Next time, take out Oscar. He's been dying to be dissected for weeks." You harumph, then take a seat at the table and start to set out tools. Frankly, I am horrified - not because you yelled at me, but because you named the hands.  _

_ Helpless, I look towards John. His arms are crossed and he is shaking his head, pretending to be disappointed. "How could you, Noreen? You know how we feel about Peggy. _

After recovering from howling at my memory of you, we take a break while Greg goes to order us some drinks and Molly escapes to the loo. It is in that short timespan that someone calls my mobile. I pick up the second the name registers on my screen.

"Hello?" I greet with a knowing smile: he must miss me to actually call and not text.

"You're still at the pub." Not a question, a statement.

"Um, yes." Crickets chirp between our quietness and I step away from the table. "Why?"

"I require your assistance with something. I can be at your location in fifteen minutes."

I eye the freshly refilled pint and chips being set down at my empty seat, just purchased by Greg. "Make it thirty minutes. We just got another round."

"If you're too busy then—"

"Mycroft," I warn, daring him to take on a tone of pity against me. "Thirty minutes, okay?"

"Yes," he breathes. Then a moment later, "Are you having fun?"

My response is stern: "I can I tell you in the car."

I am grateful to see Greg and Molly are now chatting happily without me at the table, but Mycroft really need not speak to me at this moment since he is stealing me away soon anyways. My guilt about trying to end this call is close to zero—I feel worse about ignoring the people I came with.

In a dramatic manner, he sighs and I can almost feel his breath through the phone. "Fine. Enjoy the next twenty-nine minutes."

"Twenty-eight and a half if you keep talking to me." I end the call first, determined to make the most of these twenty eights and a half minutes left with Greg and Molly.

"Who was that?" asks Greg when I return to the table, nudging my pint towards me.

"A needy friend."

I lift my glass to cheers him and Molly. Picking up on their conversation, I see they are discussing how quickly they can identify the cause of death when looking at a body.

It appears you are everywhere with us tonight, Sherlock.

\---

Exactly twenty-eight and a half minutes later, my phone buzzes:  _ You should be waiting outside. You are the one who asked for more time. _

That is Mycroft's way of announcing his arrival. I am slipping on my coat, not in a hurry to reply.

Another buzz:  _ Are you doing another round? I can leave. _

He really knows how to work the dramatics.

Buzz:  _ It's rude to keep your friends waiting. _

I agree with him, which is why I choose to hug Molly and Greg goodbye, then take my time to plan for another time for us to share in each other's company.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Leaving them, I pick up the phone. "I'm coming, I promise," I am only a few feet from the door. Once outside and in direct sight of the car, there's a sigh on the other end of the phone and then a click to end the call. I prance into the vehicle giddily, excited for whatever "favor" Mycroft has cooked up for tonight. My excitement is met by wrinkled lips and pinning eyes.

"Noreen, don't do that," he gripes. "Answer your texts."

"I'm speaking with friends, Mycroft. It's rude to be texting and calling someone else. My attention should be on them."

He faces forward, knees jutted out the side to accommodate his lanky legs. His suit is pale gray, a dazzling color against the dark leather interior. "Fine." Despite his grumpy mood, I am determined to maintain my mellow demeanor. This is due, in part, to the bit of alcohol giving me a cool head, but I feel calm and collected otherwise. Today is the anniversary of his brother's death, so Mycroft's mood deserves some kind of pardoning. Norman begins to maneuver through the streets, which are still filled during the night. I don't know where he is taking us, but any adventure suits me at the moment.

"How were your parents?" I ask. Part of me wants to inquire how he honored you today, but you are a sore subject to your dear, loving brother; I will go easy on him.

"Impeccable." The answer is brisk, but his form relaxes a little as he shifts towards me. From the side, I study the way his hairline circles around his ear in a pristine line. The small tuft he keeps up front is neat, though thinning. How long before it goes away? He doesn't appear to age, at least not that I notice. This might be because he already looks tired and old, as if he has ventured through many lives and remembers each one of them.

"Tell me about them, your parents I never got to meet them."

His glance is interested. "My brother never introduced you? Probably better that way," he mutters. His eyes trail out the window for a second as his chest rises and falls, his throat clears. "Well, if I believed in saints, my mother would be one. She'd have to confess her many sins first, but then she'd be fine."

"You adore your mum," I comment.

He smiles a bit, letting it creep into his voice. "Yes. My father, on the other hand.. Well my namesake is  _ normal _ . You might enjoy him, actually."

"You mean, because we're both normal people?"

"Precisely."

"Your namesake?" I say, recalling what he just mentioned. "You're named after him?

"Just the middle name, Siger," he replies, eyeballing me strangely. "And your middle name is?

"Oh like you don't know my middle name already," I tease, pretending to swat him.

He pokes his tongue in his cheek disapprovingly. "Believe it or not, my life does revolve around the details of yours."

"Message received," I wink. "It's Ellen. Noreen Ellen Jacobs.

Mycroft makes a face, proud of himself. "You're lying to me. It's Jeanette, after your mother."

I hold my belly while I laugh, completely humored that he fell for it. "And you lied to me! You knew my middle name the whole time - I was just testing you."

He is unamused as his eyebrows crinkle. After a second they break, and he grins with a small shake of his head. "You are a terror, Noreen Jeanette."

I bow my head proudly. When I look back up, we are still driving and heading east. Time has passed, though I know not how much. When I left the pub it was going to be 8:00pm, and now...

"We'll arrive in another ten minutes," announces Mycroft, and I realize he has been staring at me while I work through the problem of time in my head. The edges of his lips turn up before he faces his own window again.

Leaning forward, I tap on the divider between the backseat and the front. Norman rolls it down and I greet him kindly, inquiring after his wife (Nina—Norman and Nina, how adorable). I ask after his hobbies and he informs me of spending his free time (what little it is, I'm assuming) woodworking and crafting tiny canoes and armoires for his grandchildren. For the remainder of the ride I somehow convince him to craft me a bookcase with the architecture to allow for Mister and Missus to nap on the shelves, should there ever be an open one. And because I still have yet to know where Mycroft is taking me—perhaps I expected a sky rise building, or another Diogenes Club lookalike—I am confuzzled when Norman brakes in front of a well-sized house on a residential street in some neighborhood outside of London.

Mycroft exits the car and I follow, telling Norman I will be in contact about the bookcase and that I am expecting him to charge me full price. Mycroft stands on the pavement, waiting patiently (for once) for me to meet him.

"Where are we?" I ask, hugging my coat closer to me. My breath hangs in the night air, matching to Mycroft's own that puffs out of his nose.

"East Chiswick."

The name rings a bell, though I can't draw in my mind where it is exactly. Obviously east, though I thought we travelled west. "And why are we here?"

"This is where the important project is. Remember, the sole reason I called for you tonight?" He says this, then turns and walks up the nearest path towards an iron gate that links a fence around the entirety of the home. All homes on the street have them, though this one has an air of unwelcomeness to it, like a stranger might just die if they try to open this gate. Mycroft fumbles with the lock then lets us through. Once inside and on a cobblestone path, I take real notice of the charming, but rather large, two story house looming over us, doused in the color of a modern dark, slate blue.

Walking ahead, Mycroft unlocks the front door—which might mimic those found at Buckingham—and leads the way in, flipping on light switches as he goes. Once past the foyer, I have to hold back a gasp as my eyes find sights beyond my wildest architectural desires: polished wood floors, large gaping windows, paintings from famous artists no doubt, and wide open entryways that lead to a second sitting room, a kitchen, a hallway. The stairs on our right ascend almost into the heavens. There are more corners, more rooms, and I fear if I do not stay on Mycroft's tail I may get lost.

"Is this your home?" I ask, once I can speak.

"One of them, yes. Not in the city, but not exactly out of it. An in-betweener." He says it so nonchalantly, as if we all have in-between homes, or multiple homes for that matter. He glides through an entryway towards a kitchen, and I follow quickly behind. I want to stop and gape at all the decorations, so prim and polished. So Mycroft. Once in the kitchen, I spot the dining room that is connected, and from there, I can see the other sitting room I spotted from the foyer. Perhaps there are not as many rooms as I think, though for one man it is quite sizable, and the rooms are enormous. This is the home where parties are thrown with caterers filling the kitchen and alcohol busying the shelves and bar counters hoisted in every room. The home is not overdone, by any means—there is still space to breathe. But each figurine, each framed picture, each piece of furniture that looks like it has never been sat on—they have all been placed in a perfect balance. Like I said, it's so Mycroft.

"A drink? Or did you have your fill for tonight?" He has set out two crystal glasses, an unmarked bottle of amber liquid nearby.

"Please," I say, nodding him on. He fills both slowly, a small amount. If it was juice, I could drink it in one gulp, but this is no child's drink. Now we are settled with drinks, him on one side of the counter and me on the other.

"What is this important project, Mycroft?" Though I direct the question at him, my eyes wander around his horrifically spotless kitchen. This is not the place one would feel comfortable baking or cooking, every spot would stick out vibrantly against the marble counters and white appliances.

"Follow me," he says, taking up his glass and brushing past me into the dining room. From the dining room—I am taken aback that the table only seats eight people and not three hundred, how small!—we mosey into the second sitting room. While the rest of the house is bathed in beiges and neutrals, this room holds a much darker color. One wall is set in deep maroon, a long sofa stretching its length with two armchairs adjacent. This room, I can see, is already my favorite. The three other walls of the room are covered with floor to ceiling bookshelves set in the wall.

"Wow," I manage to choke out. Twirling, my eye tries to catch every title, but there are so many. "You live in a library."

"Actually, the library lives in my home," he replies, obviously pleased with himself.

My fingertips trace the spines of some copies: Charles Dickens, James Baldwin, Emily Brontë. "And all this time you've been asking to borrow my tattered copies?"

He steps beside me, arms bristling each other. "You may find this hard to believe, but your book collection contains some works that mine does not."

"Where do I sign up for a library card?" I ask, perusing through his section on British history.

"Borrow whatever you want. Just no scribbling in the margins, or underlining." He states the last part with a knowing tilt of the head - so what I tend to underline my favorite lines? It's in pencil, nothing permanent, And only a few sentences out of the entire book.

"Yeah yeah," I wave him off. Although I desire to lay eyes on each of these titles and run my finger down each spine, this mystical project from Mycroft succeeds in my mind. "So what is this project?"

Mycroft smirks, a mischievous joy seeping through his features. He ambles towards an end table by the couch and grabs a manila folder. He hands it to my empty hand, and I hand him my near empty glass so I can open up the mystery. The curiosity is killing me.

"I want you to design me a garden." As he speaks, I turn the first page. It's a blueprint of his home, focusing in on what is labeled as a backyard.

"But I'm a florist, not a gardener. I don't know much about plants and soils to keep a fully functioning garden up!" My eyes trail over all the plans, pictures, ideas. The man is asking for something you would see in the royal gardens.

"I have landscapers and gardeners on standby to complete the actual work, but I would like you to be in charge of it. Directing it, designing it. Whatever money, tools, supplies, or help you need can be acquired at a moment's notice." He senses my hesitation, walking towards a large glass backdoor situated to the left of us and pulling back the curtain. "My backyard is terribly plain, lacking luster and life."

I step up beside him, peering out the dark nothingness. "I can't see, it's dark outside."

He lets his eyes linger over me. "Well, then you will have to come back when it is light outside."

I notice a light switch off the right. Squirming under his close gaze, I panic. "Or you can turn on the outdoor light."

He rolls his eyes. "Fine. But I still think you need to see it in the daylight, especially if you will be in charge of the matter." He pauses, letting the curtain fall back over the glass door. "That is, if you accept."

I can't stop running my fingers over the soft pages in the folder. Mycroft set down both our drinks easrlier, so his free hands are splayed in his trouser pockets as he rocks slightly on his feet. His gaze is wired with excitement, and eyes a color so gray and bright that it feels like I am looking into today's sky. Glancing down at the folder, I already know what my answer is. Yes, a million times yes. Never have I had free range to construct and plant a garden - I am usually the person plucking from the garden and rearranging to my taste. Yet again, Mycroft offers me more than I can ever pay him back for. Yet again, I allow him to.

"Yes, of course I'll do this. Thank you, Mycroft." I am slightly breathless and dizzy from his attentive stare and how well we are behaving with each other at the moment.

He nods happily, covering a joyful twinkle that threatens to leak over his features. He clears his throat, clearing all emotion as well. "And I must ask one more thing, for this I truly do not know about you: what is your favorite flower?"

The sudden recollection hits me hard, a punch in the head and heart. My last contact with you. 

_ What is your favorite flower?  _ you had texted me, on the 20th. I never responded because I was in the movies with Charlotte. When I exited the theater, the calls from Lestrade and Mycroft had distracted me from reading it, and I never got around to seeing it until a day or two after. But my head was in such a fog that I blocked out the memory of the message. Later on that week, I broke my phone when I threw it in anger at the ground. My texts were never recovered. You texted me before you died, and I never responded to you.

When I am back from the memory, finding myself standing in front of Mycroft who watches me with concern, I finally get to tell you my answer: "Sunflowers. I love sunflowers."

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, folks. 
> 
> I am SO happy to have updated. Feels like it's been forever! Unfortunately, this is the new normal :( I am like, REALLY skilled at procrastinating, so I have a lot to do for my big thesis baby in the next two weeks. I like to track the progress of my thesis like a child in gestation, so it is currently the size of a cantaloupe :-) 
> 
> *Ahem* Without further ado, I would like to introduce my new beta reader, Milky <3 This darling human has taken it upon herself to peer review my writing so that it is in its best condition for all y'all. Not to mention, Milky hypes me up like no other. Beyond thankful for this calcium-filled angel who has quickly become a wonderful writing partner.
> 
> Question: What song do you think best describes Myreen's relationship? And what song best describes Norlock's relationship? (Doesn’t have to be right at this very moment in the story, but maybe where you see their relationship progressing, where it started, or overall. I AM SO EXCITED FOR YOUR ANSWERS).
> 
> I dug DEEP into my Spotify playlists to answer this… After listening for like five days, I have somehow managed to narrow down to one song for each (I still have like five backups).
> 
> Myreen: A Teenager in Love by Dion & The Belmonts  
> Norlock: death bed (coffee for your head) by Powfu
> 
> I will make a playlist of all the songs everyone says and listen to them when I write to get inspiration! (They don’t have to be in english, BTW)
> 
> As always, you all are amazing. I live to write this story (amongst other things). Stay awesome opossums. 
> 
> Cheers!


	13. One Year, One Month

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was brought to you by numerous Spotify playlists: "dark academia", T-Swift, epic movie scores, and jazz. Oh, and Milky, my dear beta fish :-)

_Thirteen months after_

_In a prison far, far away..._

_The man sits on the floor, back pressed against his rotting cot. In the six months he has been here, the floor has become more comfortable than his paper thin mattress set on metal racks and springs. He longs for a bouncy ball, something to throw at the wall that would come back to him. He longs for pasta with creamy cheese melting in his mouth. He longs for a gun, to shoot the guards inside this hell hole._

_He is kept in a secluded area away from other prisoners. This is only because he tried to rip the tongue out of a man who tripped him while in line for food; a subtle crime, child's play. So when he hears footsteps approaching from out in the hallway, he knows someone is coming for him. The steps are quick, filled with a panic he can smell. Whoever is visiting him is not supposed to be here, which means they bear good news. As they inch closer, the man stays in a seated position. He will move only when he wants, only for what he wants._

_The steps slow as they near his cell. There is a clearing of the throat, but the man refuses to look at his visitor. "Ahem," the visitor sounds, more pronounced now as he begs for the man's attention. The visitor, dressed in a grimy apron over an oil stained thermal shirt, glances back down the hall where he came from. No one is coming, not yet._

_The man has still not looked at the visitor, and again he wishes for a bouncy ball. He wishes the visitor's head, whoever he is, was his bouncy ball. Bouncing against the walls and splattering blood._

_The visitor watches the man watch the wall. With one more quick look over his shoulder, he takes a deep breath and does what he snuck away from the kitchen to do._

_"An island in the river drowns when the navigator turns its sails."_

_And suddenly, the man wished for more than a bouncy ball._

\---

"I think that's all for today. We will be back next week to begin the digging, Ms. Jacobs," Ms. Maxen says, rising from her chair and reaching out her hand. I stand and offer the same, extending plenty of thank you's and words of trustful anticipation. Her grip is strong for a woman nearing her late 50s, though I do believe it has something to do with those power pants she is always sporting. Ms. Maxen retreats out the door of the office without expecting me to walk her out—she has visited several times now, and I trust she knows her way to the door.

When she is gone, I circle back around to the large oak desk where there are papers and blueprints scattered. If Mycroft could see his desk now, he would be disgusted by my lack of tidiness. The thought makes me chuckle. When I sit behind his desk, I understand how he becomes an arrogant arse; I myself feel like the freaking PM sitting here. Checking my watch, I note the time is 5:45pm. He should be home any minute, that is if he gets off work at a normal time. Fridays—or any day really—tend to have Mycroft working later. My theory is that the weekend rowdy crowds begin to rile up, but he says it's because Friday's are the days I mostly work in his office, and he does not try to inflect self-torture by spending extra time with me.

Of course, he is lying. We have a system: he comes home, I go to leave, he offers me to stay for dinner, I reject once, he offers again, I say yes, he pretends to be annoyed, then we have a grand ol' time. And we repeat that again on Saturdays since I usually don't work. Sunday's, well, sometimes I see my parents and sometimes I'm alone with Mister and Missus. The work week is long, especially considering Barney's must still take full priority. But, I recently gave Becca a raise and assigned her more managing duties, and we are hiring another part-time person to replace Max who is taking a brief interlude from work until March.

While awaiting Mycroft's arrival, I take a few more minutes to dot some i's and cross some t's so I can have the weekly update ready for him. I'm not nearly as nervous as I was last week, or the week before. Once, I had to inform Mycroft this project would be no quick thing - it would last months. _"Yes, that was to be expected,"_ he had responded, moseying through the papers on his desk, the desk I had been using per his request. _"As I informed you, Noreen, all resources needed are at your disposal. Take your time, please. Art need not be rushed."_

I breathed a sigh of relief when he said that, not wanting to be annoying by taking so long. That first meeting was nearly three weeks ago—I started on the garden project right away—and I can guarantee it will be slow as a snail. Because of his current backyard situation, minor excavation and resurfacing will need to be done. Additionally, planter's boxes are to be placed in the east end of the backyard, and I planned for a small greenhouse and adorable planter's shed to adorn the northwest corner.

Mycroft knew all of this, though he really meant what he said when he intended for the project to be managed solely by me. Never have I seen him so.. trusting, tolerant, permissive—need I add more synonyms? Much of the time I was left alone to work with the head landscaper and gardener. Mycroft would situate us in his home office, then leave for work or some other appointment, or just sit in his study and read. The office I worked in was located upstairs in his home, one of the five rooms divided among the large second story layout. Besides the bathroom and the office, I had not laid eyes on any of the other rooms, though a curiosity prickled in my mind when I wondered which door led to his bedroom. The man never seemed to sleep, so a space designed for him to do that, well I needed to see the contraptions that tricked Mycroft into slumber. Maybe just a really thick mattress.

The faded sound of a door opening reaches my ears just as I finish organizing the papers into their respective folders. Once the neatness is up to par, I pad across the floor and out of the office, passing two of the mystery doors as I descend the stairs. Mycroft stands inside the foyer with matted down hair, removing the many layers of his damp winter wear. When I approach he says nothing, but hands me a crinkled white bag.

"Open it," he orders with a soft voice.

I unfold the top edges and peek inside. Brightly colored candies wrapped in wax paper meet my eyes, and my head snaps up to him. "You went to the beach today," I accuse, milling around inside the bag to find my favorite flavor of salt water taffy.

"It was no fun day trip, if that's what you are thinking," he comments, brushing past me and heading for the kitchen. That thought never crossed my mind, actually. The details of Mycroft's career were details I ignored, and for good reason. Some days he looked thin and haunted, other times angry and steaming, and most times he was just without emotion. I wanted nothing to do with a career that made his eyes go blank.

"Dinner?" he asks, filling up a glass of water and taking a proper swig. I have followed him into the kitchen, still searching in the bag for my flavor.

"Yes to dinner, but first you must drive us back out to get some more taffy. You seemed to have forgotten the cinnamon roll, my favorite flavor. Even strawberry cheesecake would have done." My smile is playful as I say this, and he picks up on the tease.

An eyebrow raises, a smirk coming over his face that he tries to cover by lifting the glass to his lips. When he is done hydrating, he looks triumphant. "I did not forget them—cinnamon roll is my favorite flavor and I indulged myself on the way home. There are some pickle and mango flavors still left, though."

Trying not to break into laughter at his slight sass, I unwrap and pop a pickle flavored one into my mouth seemingly unbothered. "Delicious," I spit, accepting that I will have pickled taffy stuck in my teeth for ages. Still grinning, he opens a small cabinet above his head and removes another white bag, then tosses it to me. Inside are a few pieces of recognizable flavors: cinnamon roll and plain strawberry, along with some chili mango.

He pushes himself away from the counter and joins me while I try to get the pickle taste out of my mouth with the help of cinnamony rolliness. His own fingers daintily unwrap the waxy paper. Dinner seems like a far off worry now as we joke and chat, the air between us growing sweet with sugar.

I said we have a system, a routine, but sometimes we break it. Sometimes eating candy together is better than eating dinner.

\---

_Two days later_

_What else do you require I bring for tonight?_

I glaze over the text while arranging a mixture of red roses and Queen Anne's lace, letting the green stems peek through for the full Christmas color effect. Normally, we close Barney's on Sundays. However, tomorrow is Christmas Eve and we will be closing shop so everyone has maximum time to spend with their families. Instead of taking a long weekend, I offered to open the store for a measly six hours today, letting people wander in as they picked up their poinsettias and last minute Christmas cards. As the time wound down to 3:00pm - closing time - my stomach leaped and skipped in excitement as I thought about tonight.

During a conversation last week, Mycroft and I came to the realization that we would be spending our holidays apart. This was to be expected considering he had his family and I had mine, yet I assumed we might at least enjoy New Year's together. He confessed there was a work-related cocktail party he must attend, and I quickly asked around to make plans with Greg and Molly so he would not feel bad about deserting me, though I'm not sure Mycroft would even feel bad.

As a way to make up for what would be a very long absence from each other—we were now visiting at least three times a week, because of the garden, of course—it was decided that we might celebrate all the holidays together in one night. This was my plan, obviously, and Mycroft agreed to it with a wrinkling of his nose and a terse _"As you wish"._ However, I was not the one who requested there be a full bar, a five course meal, and a group of Christmas Carolers serenading us. Because I offered my flat for the festivities, I shut the idea down and our party planning committee was quickly dismantled.

I had already decorated my flat: A Christmas tree (fake and three feet tall with some missing lights and ancient ornaments) sat daintily in one corner, three presents sitting under it. One was for Mycroft, one for Mister, and one for Missus. My three special "M"s. Additionally, there was a banner with gold letters spelling out "HAPPY NEW YEAR" strung over my telly and bookshelves. Party hats and noisemakers were laid out on the coffee table, as well as a small grouping of Santa, snowmen, and angel figurines circled around a lonely little Rudolph —my makeshift Nativity scene.

I allowed Mycroft to handle the dinner, but I would have much rather witnessed the man trying to cook a turkey, stuffing, pudding, and all the other dishes instead of ordering it ready to go from a fancy service.

I tap out my response: _Your Christmas spirit... and other spirits. Ones I can drink._

Very quickly, there was a buzz: _Is gin acceptable?_

 _Bleh, try again._ He should know me better than that - I despise gin.

His response leaves me chuckling as I imagine his flustered reaction: _Had you let me be in control of this, there would be a bartender and plenty of choices._

 _Don't forget a book,_ I send, turning my phone over as I start the closing process for Barney's. The book, for how random it seems, serves a great purpose for tonight. Although Mycroft has no problem staying awake well past midnight, I will no doubt fall asleep. Thus, it was necessary that I daydream up enough ideas to fill our time. So far our agenda goes as follows:

_5:00pm - Mycroft's arrival and the beginning of cocktail hour_   
_5:30pm - The food is dropped off by the caterer and self-served; dinner begins_   
_6:30pm - Exchange Christmas gifts_   
_7:30pm - Listen to pre-recorded Christmas carolers (Note: Mycroft is unhappy with this one.)_   
_8:30pm - A cigar walk around the block_   
_9:30pm - A rousing game of Cluedo (Note: Noreen has requested Scrabble and is determined to play it at some point during the night.)_   
_10:30pm - Quiet reading time_   
_11:15pm - Prepare to ring in the New Year._   
_12:00am - Play Auld Lang Syne and pretend it's 2013!_

(Note _: All of this is subject to change at any moment.)_

After forwarding the agenda to him, he applauded me for my planning skills, then proceeded to nag me about the carolers. I did not realize he took such a liking to live music, so I promised to sing along to all the songs and we could call it even.

When I arrive home, there is only a half hour left for me to change out of my grubby clothes and slip into party ones. This was in no way a black-tie event, but it was safe to assume Mycroft would appear in his usual dapper state of a polished suit. So as to keep up with him, I treated myself to a shopping trip and picked up quite the dress. Mister and Missus love exploring the depths of my closet, so I was forced to leave the dress hanging in a bag to prevent turning into a furball myself. Before putting the dress on I slip into the bathroom to examine my face.

I do not consider thirty to be an old age, but looking in the mirror, there is no doubt I am far past twenty-two. My curls that used to be Shirley Temple ringlets have lost some of their luster and transitioned to loose waves. I thought cutting my hair might give it some bounce, but after having it snipped to a stylish bob just above my shoulders (I sacrificed at least five inches of hair), the waves still prevailed. In addition, my once milk chocolate hair is fading to a happy medium, that of an ash brown—not yet gray, but fading in age. As per usual during the winter season, my fruitful olive skin is paling to a lighter complexion. In all honesty, and I hate to admit it, I am turning into my mother.

Where once I resembled the deep features of my father, I was now a spitting image of my mum. Her almost straight hair conjures in my mind, a rapid change from the curls she once had when I was a young girl, and I wonder how long it will be until I lose my waves completely. Or until I become my mother, completely. God help us all.

I swipe some makeup over myself, settling for a subtly natural look. When I am back in my room, I carefully remove the dress from its makeshift cover (did you know garbage bags have many uses?) and hang it on the handle of my closet. It's just as pretty as when I spotted it hiding in the back racks of a department store. The green is an intense dark emerald, my preference for a Christmas color versus red. I undo the knot of the dress and slip it around me. The dress is a wrap, meaning I must fit the strings and fabric together tightly so it does not come undone. When secured, I look in my mirror. The length stops above my knees a few inches, and I am not sure the enlarged muscles of my thighs are flattering or scary—I am no petite person. Instead of a normal short sleeved style, there is a line cut over down the middle so that one side falls in front and the other to the back, leaving most of my arm exposed. I slip on small wedges, something I only wear in the summer, but since we are staying inside this toaster oven of a flat, dressing like it's 70 degrees outside is acceptable.

One last glance in the mirror shows me one thing: I look good. I look really good. I blush slightly because, just maybe, I have tried a little too hard for tonight's two-person party. My justification for looking like a date to a cocktail party comes from the fact that Mycroft usually sees me in trousers and a work shirt. As I said, he usually outshines me in fashion and looks, so I came to win tonight. I watch myself leave in the mirror, noting the flexing of my calves as I walk. Yes, the muscles are good. Sexy. Powerful.

Exiting my room, I shut the door behind me. Everything is in place and the clock on my kitchen wall reads 4:59pm. As soon as it changes to 5:00pm, there is a knock. As usual, Mycroft is punctual. Does he really wait outside the door until it's 5:00pm exactly?

"Mycroft," I greet as I open the door. His poshness still astounds me—under his heavy coat is a light gray suit, paired with a matching waistcoat and a blood red tie with a small snowman sewn at the bottom. Don't stare, Noreen, it's rude.

"Noreen," he nods, walking in with a rather small wrapped package in one hand and a shopping bag in another. My present! And booze.

"You can put that under the tree," I comment, leading him to my setup. His eyes take in the surroundings and he hums in approval at my choice of decorations even though what he says next is a bitter correction.

"I still think hosting a bigger affair at my house would have been more suitable for our celebration."

"I'm sure you do think that," I chime, shaking my head and relieving him of the alcohol bag. I have no doubt he will continue to bring up how much better everything would have been at his estate—all the more reason to make tonight something unforgettable. Lately we spent so much time at his home that I was beginning to miss Mister and Missus who, at this moment, were out of sight and probably getting into some trouble.

Mycroft follows me to the kitchen, which is a few feet away, while tapping on his phone. "Dinner will arrive in approximately twenty-five minutes. Shall we start with a drink?"

I am already reaching for two glasses in the cupboard when I agree, "That's what the schedule says. And we must stick to the schedule." The two faux crystal glasses have been pushed to the back of the shelf, and even with my heels, my fingers barely scrape their sides. Without warning, a body bumps mine aside while a long arm extends and pulls the glasses out, setting them on the counter.

"That was painful to witness," Mycroft says, lips straight but slightly upturned. He reaches for a bottle—some sort of fancy brandy. At least it's not gin.

"I almost had it," I bite back, smoothing out my dress that has risen higher than it previously was. My face is hot from being caught off guard, from how comfortable he was to just scoot me out of the way with his own body.

He pours us glasses and we clink, taking small sips. The noise must awaken the sleeping beasts because Mister and Missus come from the direction of the bathroom, yawning with sleepy eyes. When Mister sees Mycroft he immediately attacks his shoelaces. Missus rubs against my legs in greeting, then does the same to Mycroft. His face softens as he looks down at them, face twisting into minor appreciation. He feels my giddy stare and looks up. "Don't think I approve of them," he warns. For someone who despises the poor animals, he sure enjoys spending the next fifteen minutes petting and playing with them.

When there is a knock, I open to greet the bearer of our food for tonight. The restaurant is some place Mycroft frequents often, which means I have never been there. A handful of workers bring in steaming containers and set them down, nodding at us before they leave quickly and quietly. No wonder Mycroft likes them.

The smell of the food is enough to send my mouth watering—turkey, stuffing, potatoes, cranberry sauce, brussel sprouts, and minced pies for dessert. We fill up plates and begin to eat, completely famished. Our dinner talk is usual—dreams for the garden, ridiculous questions brought to Mycroft by yours truly, and I even get him to share a few Christmas memories. He details one where you, Sherlock, set up a scavenger for Mycroft to solve in order to find his present. At the end of it, you had gifted him a set of Egyptian history books and a blanket with sarcophagi printed all over it, which he had to dig out of a homemade tomb in the backyard. For being seven, and him fourteen, Mycroft admitted you were quite a creative genius. I'm glad that trait stuck around.

After dinner, we exchange gifts. We are sitting on the couch, separate cushions, facing each other. "Me first," I say, reaching for the wrapped rectangle on his lap. Mycroft looks taken aback and he pulls the package slightly out of reach.

His eyes are pointed, but he appears amused. "That's quite rude. Shouldn't you offer that I go first? I am the guest."

I chuckle, dismayed that for how know-it-all he is, he still does not understand me. "Those rules don't apply when it comes to presents. I love gifts - they're my love language. So gimme," I say, leaning to pluck it out of a hand.

Once through the first layer of paper, I recognize a book spine. Like his tie, it is a bright red with gold embroidery. There is no title on the front, so I open it up and a card falls out. I cast my eyes suspiciously towards Mycroft who is watching me closely with a proud smile. I note that the book itself is _Wuthering Heights_ by Emily Brönte, something I had been meaning to borrow from his library, but this looks like a different edition from his copy.

The card is small, but on thick paper stock. First, I notice the handwriting. It is loopy, yet neat—an uncommon duo. My eyes adjust for a second, then I read what it says:

_Dearest Noreen,_

_You have read Anne's and Charlotte's masterpieces, so now I entreat you to finish the Brönte sisters by reading Emily's. When you have finished, Mr. Linden at the Brönte Parsonage Museum will be waiting to escort you on a personal tour of the authors' home. Additionally, your expenses for the trip to the town of Haworth will be paid for, as will the guest of whom you choose to invite. There is no expiration date, but please inform me before you depart so I can arrange travel details as necessary._

_Happiest of Christmases._

_Yours,_   
_Mycroft_

The note eases into my mind, processing slowly. He gifted me a book, and then he gifted me a trip to see where the book itself was dreamt up and written. "Mycroft," I breathe, mouth hanging open and head shaking. "I—thank you," I stutter, completely ogled by his creativeness, his thoughtfulness.

"You like it, then?" he asks, looking sheepish.

"I love it," I say. "And I am pausing the reading process in my current book to start this one right away."

"Don't commit such treachery," he chuckles, sipping his brandy. "You can start afterwards. Like the note said, no hurry. Besides, Northern England is dazzling in the early summer."

Nodding, I speak before I can really think. "You'll have lots to show me when we go—I know nothing outside of London and the east coast."

His lips move apart, then back together, no sound escaping in the meantime. "If you wish to invite me, yes, I would be honored to.. show you.. around."

"Who else would I take, my mum?" I scoff, shaking my head like I am joking though really I am trying to get rid of the color that has rushed to my cheeks, no doubt inflating my skin to a pink. "Your turn," I say, shoving his present towards him. "It's no trip, though I do think—"

"Hush," he says, scolding me for speaking insecurely. My package is small, fitting comfortably in the palm of his hand. Very quickly he works through the paper, being careful not to ruin the thin gift. When he opens it, his eyes study the small card and then he glances up at me. "How—"

"C'mon, put your coat on," I say, checking my watch. "They start at 7:30pm, according to the schedule," I wink.

"But the schedule specifically said _pre-recorded_ carolers."

"I do know how to lie, Mycroft," I chuckle. We put on our coats and I lock the flat behind us. Yes, I lied to the man. Originally, he was very put out about not listening to live Christmas carolers, so thanks to Carl and Evelyn and their church group, there is a group waiting for us at Shoreditch Park near my house. Once outside, I spot Norman waiting at the curb in the car.

"Why is Norman here? I told him not to come back until much later," gripes Mycroft.

"I know," I say, turning to him and smiling mischievously, "I called him."

The look on Mycroft's face—complete and utter surprise—is enough to send streaks of warmth down my belly. We reach the car and fumble inside while Norman drives us to the park. He stops at the designated parking spot, and I lead Mycroft out of the car and over to the small group of people standing in the grass with candles. Upon our arrival, they instantly begin singing. They do renditions of Silent Night, Little Drummer Boy, O Come All Ye Faithful, Carols of the Bells, and more contemporary tunes. Although it's freezing outside, I am warm standing next to Mycroft, our arms touching but not linked. Occasionally I steal a glance at him, watching his grey eyes warm as they inhabit the choir.

When the choir ends we give them a generous clap, then I run to hug Carl and Evelyn. Evelyn whispers "he seemed to enjoy it," in my ear, then winks as she pulls away. I blush and thank them again before walking back to gather Mycroft. He is standing away from the choir, staring hard at the ground. "Ready?" I ask. He looks up, an eagerness in his gaze, and nods. We traipse back to the car silently, and we don't speak again until we are back in my flat.

"I have one more gift," I say, once we are through the front door.

"Noreen, that was more than enough," he sighs with exacerbation, his demeanor much softer than normal. I swear he is floating, and a halo outlines his form. "How did you—"

"What do you give to a man who has everything?" I ask, grabbing the second gift from under the tree and handing it to him. "A moment, something he can't buy."

He takes the second gift from me, smiling with trepidation. When he opens it, he laughs.

"Oh," I add, "and a pen with his name on it since he always complains about losing cheap ones."

He removes the writing utensil from the box and examines it. "Thank you," he speaks, eyeing me earnestly, sincerely.

"You are welcome," I reply. We stand for a bit longer than we should, watching each other. When I cannot stand it any longer, I check my watch. "Cigar walk or Cluedo?"

"Cluedo, please," he smirks, and we break from one moment to another—more things that Mycroft cannot buy.

\---

"Whahsghjkjs—" My body snaps up from the couch, vision clearing from its blur. I am on my couch, a blanket half covering me. There is a prick on my leg and I spot Missus diving around trying to catch my moving legs and toes. "What are you doing, missy?" I ask, swatting playfully at her.

"She's been doing that for the last twenty minutes," comes a pronounced voice behind me. I jump and turn around to find Mycroft sitting in the armchair adjacent to my couch. Mister is sound asleep in his lap and Mycroft pets him gently. "I'm glad you woke up now, I was worried I might have to pour water on you in a few minutes—it's almost 11:30."

Memories hit me: we played Cluedo, in which Mycroft won every. freaking. game. Then, we smoked a cigar outside my flat. Afterwards, at about 11:00pm, we headed inside and started our reading time. Mycroft had brought some of Chesterton's "Father Brown Stories," and I continued through "The Awakening of Miss Prim" by Natalia Sanmartin Fenollera. At one point, though, there was soft breathing coming from the armchair that Mycroft had sat in. When I looked behind me, he was fast asleep in the chair. Never had I seen him sleep, and the sight was comforting. So that's what it took - a good book.

That's when I started yawning, eyes drooping... and now here I am. Just waking from a nap.

"How long have you been up for?" I ask, shoving the blanket off and ignoring my wedges as I walk to the kitchen. Now that we have finished with Christmas and started on celebrating the New Year, I am requiring I get drunk—it's only tradition.

"I never fell asleep," hollers Mycroft, trying carefully to move Mister off his lap.

"You're such a liar," I giggle, pulling out two shot glasses that Mycroft brought along in his alcohol bag. There is a fancy vodka I cannot pronounce, and I pour to fill the glasses. Steps near me from behind, and I hand the small glass to Mycroft. "We are far too sober," I announce, holding up the glass. "If we are to ring in 2013, we need to take at least two of these." I check my watch. "We have twenty three minutes to get the party started."

He rolls his eyes, but clinks his glass against mine and shoots the drink with no problem. I follow suit, and when I finish he is already pouring us another round. We do it again, my throat numb and burning. "And how else do we start the party?" he asks, leaning against the counter.

I hold my hand out, pointing my fingers as I list ideas: "Keep the drinks coming, um, keep the cats happy, keep the Mycroft happy—" he groans at that one. "That's about it." I grin cheekily.

"As if Noreen being unhappy would not ruin the whole night, too," he comments, eyeing me skeptically. "From what I remember, your angry tyrants are monstrous. I believe they usually involve a slamming of car doors and some kind of name calling."

"Only with you," I reply, slipping past him. "Bring the alcohol," I call behind me. He does as instructed and sets our inventory down on the coffee table while I hook my laptop up the TV. Because no one else in the world is currently doing a countdown to a fake New Year, I have to find a website that will show time moving by the second. I pull it up and fill the screen; it reads 11:47pm. Thirteen minutes. Our plan is to countdown to midnight, then take a shot as soon as it hits 12:00am.

Mister and Missus have hopped on the couch next to us, playfully pawing at our legs though we are just out of reach. Our bodies are inches apart, crammed between the couch and coffee table. "What's your New Year's resolution?" I ask, watching the time out of the corner of my eye.

He looks down at me with focused irises, and now that my heels are on, I am only an inch or two shorter than him. "Nothing. A resolution implies something is wrong in the first place, and nothing is wrong with me or my life."

I laugh, cupping my hand over my mouth. "Okay, well in that case I no longer feel inspired to try and expand my cooking repertoire by experimenting on a new dish every week."

"That's the spirit, Noreen," he winks.

The time is now at 11:55, so we grab our shot glasses. The two from before are already making my head fuzzy, but not enough that I am even close to being buzzed. We are silent for a few moments, watching the clock count up to midnight. It's strange, I am used to watching the time tick down, a series of minutes moving to 00:00. Now, though, we watch the numbers build in anticipation. I like watching the clock go this way - perhaps I will have to start celebrating New Year's separate from the whole world.

"Ready?" I ask, as the time hits 11:59:00. "One minute left in 2012. Next stop, 2013. Well, kind of." And we laugh. In our world, Mycroft and Noreen world, it is almost 2013.

He nods, a determined look in his eyes; I am thankful he is playing along with this silliness tonight.

As the clock hits 11:59:50, we start our countdown opposite of the way it's going up.

"10... 9... 8... 7... 6... 5... 4... 3... 2... 1, HAPPY NEW YEAR!" We clack glasses once more and tip our heads back as the liquid runs down our throats. The stinging causes my eyes to shut tightly, and when I recover I find Mycroft in a similar state, gulping for air. We take a few deep breaths, the celebratory buzzer sound erupting from the computer. I shut it off and start our New Year's playlist—a funky mix of Jazz tunes.

"Well," I sigh contently as my eyes find his; my browns resting in his grays - tonight they are clear and poised. "Do you feel any different in the New Year?"

His gaze is tight, completely saturated by his attention to me. There is a brief pause, an interlude, and my heart beats loudly in my ears. When I see his lips part, my neck prickles with fearful curiosity. At last, he speaks: "No, I must confess I feel quite the same."At that moment, his head falls forward slightly, pale forehead meeting mine. He only has to move inches forward so that we touch, the crowns of our heads intermingling and our noses meeting. I can still catch his features from my point of view—eyes closed, face peaceful like while he was sleeping earlier. He relaxes against me like he has never rested for a moment in his life. When was the last time he unburdened his load and let it fall on someone else? This must be a first because his breathing is leveled, slow, deep.

I must confess that up to this point in the night, I have not been completely honest in my narrative. With Mycroft now leaning into me, his warm head touching mine, the truth becomes too overbearing to hold in: he is a very attractive man.

It's the sleeves, the damn rolled up sleeves. The past few weeks he has come home from work, taken off his suit jacket, and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. And the patch of hair on top of his head, the way it swipes to the side in a small heap of burgundy chestnut—I am smitten. Even now, still leaning against me, the smell of spicy soap fills my nostrils and burns my heart. God, he smells like a peppery angel. And that stupid red tie with the cute little snowman at the bottom... He's trying to torture me.

"Festive," I whisper breathily to break the passionate silence, tugging at the snowman at the bottom of his tie. He scoffs, exhaling a sharp breath through his nose.

"What's a _love_ language?" he asks, practically vomiting the words. His eyes are squeezed shut, almost in pain. I recall my comment from earlier tonight, about how my love language was receiving gifts. Why is he asking now? While his forehead still tickles mine and our noses still converse?

I chuckle quietly. "It's the way a person gives and receives love," I explain, watching his nose wrinkle slightly. He doesn't react any more, so I keep going. "There are words of affirmation, acts of service, receiving gifts, quality time, and physical touch."

"What if one doesn't _love_ ," he asks, voice straining with emotion unheard of from him. "Can they be languages of partiality?"

"Mycroft," I giggle, our heads moving slightly as they readjust. "Think about this way - how do you show love to your parents? To Mummy?"

"She collects these rare statues that a woman in South England sculpted and painted from the years of 1965-1980. I try to grow her collection every birthday and Christmas, sometimes on Mother's Day, too," he mumbles.

"So, it sounds like you give love through gifts," I agree, watching him closely as I say next the part. "Which is great news for me, because that's how I receive."

A smirk draws his lips up before it falls again, seriousness cutting into his features. "And how do you give?"

In my defense, he asked for it.

Bracing myself with two hands on his chest, I lift my lips to his. Our kiss is not chaste, by any means, but unfortunately short lived. His hands refrain from touching me, but mine stay firmly planted as they grip the lapel of his suit. When we break apart, I half expect a stern glare or immediate rebuke. But our heads and noses remain tangled, sweet fermented breath soaking the space between our lips.

His hand lifts and I brace to be pushed away and rejected. Instead, his right hand covers my left, the hand that is death gripping the lapel of his suit. He lifts the hand away, relaxing my fingers, and brings my knuckles to his lips. It's not really a kiss - not like the one we just shared - but it's enough to electrify my skin. After running his lips across my fingers, he sets my hand back down at my side and his eyes snap open. The usual chrome gray is melted, a cozy fire burning behind his lashes.

"Noreen, I believe your love language is flowers. Primrose, blue violets..." He trails off, giving me a knowing look that reaches into the depths of my soul.

My cheeks turn the color of pink roses, embarrassed because I cannot claim ignorance to what he says - I know what those flowers mean, and I knew what they meant when I put them in the bouquets I gifted him. Did I not expect him to learn the language of flowers once I introduced him to it? He was bound to find out, to translate my pedaled friends.

Seconds later, he straightens, dragging his savory scent away from me. He swallows, steadying his gaze on me before taking a long blink and completely gathering himself with a deep breath. I let my right hand slide down his chest and to my side. His jaw clenches, melted grey forming into a statue once more.

"Tomorrow, 8:00am, I will be outside your flat to take you to Shenley," he states, not harshly but not kindly.

I nod, letting him walk away from me while he grabs his coat, bag, and the pen. He says nothing before slipping out the door, and I march over only to lock it. Mister and Missus are awake again, cocking their heads and watching me curiously. "I don't know what happened either," I say. After my shower, I lay in bed and the drinks lull me to sleep before I can think too much about it.

\---

_The next day_

Tomorrow, I am ready by 7:50am. The cats are set with food, water, and clean litter. A neighbor girl and her grandma will come and check on them tonight and tomorrow sometime. I blow them a kiss before leaving out my flat door. Once outside, it is only a few minutes before a familiar car pulls to a stop in front of the curb. The trunk is popped and a man exits the driver's side—not Norman, he has the day off—to help me place my bag in. I get in the backseat and am greeted warmly by Mycroft.

"Sleep well?" he asks, glancing up from scrolling through his phone.

"Wonderfully," I reply, offering a small smile. He returns it, and the car begins to move.

We are quiet for most of the ride, though in the last twenty minutes we begin a heated conversation concerning what the best place in London is to find a bowl of pho is. It feels normal, those last twenty minutes. After sleeping a few hours the night prior, I was able to convince myself the kiss never happened, but my sizzling lips told a different story. Throughout the morning I found myself touching them, in complete disbelief that it happened yet completely convinced I could still feel the softness of his warm mouth.

When we pull in front of my parents' home—he is giving me a ride to Shenley so I can avoid the train, and because his parents also live outside of London—I almost invite him in. Then a memory of you pops in my head.

_"Why are people yelling?" you ask me as we watch the bleachers erupt. If we were not in this room, the cheers and screams would be deafening._

_"Aresenal scored, it's a big deal," I reply, popping a cashew in my mouth from the nearby bowl._

_You frown as if you don't believe me then glare out over the field. "Boring," you huff, though only loud enough for me to hear. We are in box seats at Emirates stadium, something that many football fans would kill for (which I'm sure you would gladly let them do—you have been without a solid case for two weeks), and you, Sherlock Holmes, are bored. This was to be expected and is exactly why I dreaded bringing you along in the first place. I consider myself a fan of football, though I much prefer to play it, and even I was underwhelmed by being here. But because Issac is the team manager we have penthouse access without having to pay; I like a good bargain._

_The rest of my family, especially my dad and Charlotte, are enjoying themselves. They sit in the tall, leather seats next to the window and watch with a wild intensity, their red jerseys shining bright. Normally, neither of them are Arsenal fans, but they are today. At another table a few feet away from us, mum is holding Ava as she scribbles across pages with a few markers._

_It's late August, but the room is air conditioned and the beer icy cold. You, though, neglected to wear anything besides your usual neat shirt and trousers. I don't mind—the straining buttons are dashing on you. Really, I would not have cared to miss this game, but lately it seemed you had been neglecting to visit my family. There was the one initial dinner in March, another dinner in May, and a sprinkle of times throughout the summer for visiting. For some people, especially you, this was quite a lot. But I was used to spending most of my time with family, and I expected the same of the person I was involved with. Hence why we find ourselves sitting at a table watching men kick around a ball. Family bonding, right?_

_I had no problem admitting you were not really trying to mesh at the moment, nor had you been for some time. The nervousness you once felt while first meeting them had dissipated, or maybe it took hold even more. The conversations with my sister were fine, enjoyable and entertaining even. She was fascinated by your mind, and your obsession with death. My dad, well, he thought everything you said was funny because most of the time you were making fun of me. You and Isaac never spoke because he was fluent in the language of football and you fluent in the language of literally any other subject. Lastly, my mum. Now, this one was difficult. Well, actually, my mum is just difficult._

_You know the Bible says: "love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy"? Well my mother's love is impatient, rude, and jealous. Don't get me wrong - she can be a loving woman, but in particular ways. If Charlotte or I needed a hug, we went to our dad. If we needed to get out of a seriously sticky situation, we went to mum. She is a tough woman, and tougher on us, but trustworthy and loyal. Just tough._

_Thus, she has yet to warm up to you. From an outsider's perspective, this is understandable. You identify as a high functioning sociopath that solves murders for a living and occasionally calls her daughter "Florist" instead of "Noreen." You also are terrible at holding conversations of no interest to you, and she is so weirdly overprotective of me that the teasing you do to me that my dad finds funny, she finds tasteless._

_This is all to say, Sherlock, that I dragged you here to impress my mum._

_From my seat I feel the vibration of your phone in your pocket. Without so much as a glance, you pick it up, answering it hungrily. You scoot out of the chair and to the door, speaking in low tones. I have three guesses: John, Mycroft, or Greg. Besides me, there aren't too many others you phone. To distract myself, I step away from our table and rumble towards Ava and my mum. Ava is coloring crazily over a picture of a lion and she giggles when I near._

_"Hi, sweet girl." I wiggle my fingers at her, threatening to tickle, and she giggles some more as she grasps for them. Her skin is soft._

_"I love lions. Did you know they are the best at swimming? Out of cats, I mean. Sailfish are the best—no, the fastest, which could also mean the best depending on your definition of 'good swimming'. How do you define 'good swimming'?" Your voice comes from out of nowhere next to me, and I am relieved the phone has been removed from your ear and you engage with Ava, though a bit past her understanding._

_Ava screeches and reaches for your hair, gazing the tip of the curls and holding on with all of her might._

_"Ava," I chuckle, trying to release her grip, but it is like death._

_Your neck bends to her pull, tossing from side to side as you groan and yelp with every little pull._

_"Ava, let go," I say, and finally she does. By now she has worked herself into a laughing fit and is reaching for your curls again._

_With eyebrows knit together, you watch her squirming. "How about a book? I would much rather you rip the pages instead of my curls."_

_You take her to the small loveseat nearby and pick up a small book about soccer. My mum comes to sit, lifting Ava and placing her on her lap. You read to her, though you add in much of your commentary, most of which is about the uselessness of sports. When you go on these tangents, Ava just stares and laughs like everything you do is the funniest thing ever. Which sometimes, it is. Even Mum is grinning to herself, which when I see that, sends waves of relief coursing through my veins._

_Later on, while Ava is getting her diaper changed, I can't help but ask you. "What changed?"_

_You wrinkle your eyebrows, offering a questioning look as if my inquiry is completely preposterous. "Nothing changed. We came to spend time with your family, therefore that is what I will do. Happily." You add the last part on with soft blue eyes._

_"Thank you," I say, leaning my head into your shoulder, which is the most affection you will allow._

_But then there you go, checking your phone again for a case, I know it. There is a second where I wonder if I ever will be enough, but then it goes away. I ignore it. You are here, with me, not there. Your florist comes before a case._

Back in the car, with Mycroft, I do not invite him inside. I am reminded you are brothers, and some things are genetic: for example, aversion to people, even my people. The thought stings, but I ignore it. Turning to Mycroft, I find him already watching me from across the leather seat.

"Have a Happy Christmas, Mycroft. And I hope 2013 rings in nicely for you."

He watches me with something, a look I can't quite articulate. It is a stranger to his features, but it makes my heart skip nonetheless. "And same to you, Noreen," he replies.

I slip out of the car, grab my bag, and walk into the arms of my waiting family. For the next two days, it is easy to bite away the fearful feelings of the potential for Mycroft and I's friendship to change. But something happens from December 24th to January 1st that changes my mind.

Text messages. I forgot the man could text.

Christmas day: _Five more miniature statues and my mother's collection will be complete._

New Year's Eve: _I prefer our version of welcoming 2013. Cocktail parties are so 2012._

Those messages, and many more in between, make me think nothing has changed at all. I still have my Mycroft. And as I, myself, countdown to 2013, I agree with him: I much rather prefer standing in my crowded flat with him and a shot of alcohol in my hand. But instead, I am in a pub with Greg and Molly as we count down. 3... 2... 1...

I chug my pint, but I still feel his kiss through the bitter ale. Drinking it away does nothing, and I hope it's the same for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By some form of sheer grace, this weekend I was able to finish my work AND update my work of fiction. Writing this chapter was SO much fun. Gahhhhhhh - many emotions! Interested to hear all of yours, as always. 
> 
> Something I have noticed in all my writing is I struggle to illustrate characters, so I tried harder in this chapter to describe Noreen more closely. Sometimes I prefer to leave characters ambiguous so that the readers can design them in their head, and honestly Noreen is hard even for me to picture. She is loosely based on one of my cousin's who is quite possibly the most gorgeous person I have ever seen. However, I mixed her with one of my best friends, but I kept putting my friend's head on my cousin's body and it was this weird hybrid image, lol. LONG STORY SHORT, I am also trying to draw her up in my mind. With every chapter, I feel she comes more alive off of the page, and I hope you feel that, too!
> 
> Question: What candies would you assign to Noreen, Mycroft, and Sherlock?
> 
> I see Mycroft as a Sour Patch Kids (sour, sweet, gone - am I right? ;) ), Sherlock is a gobstobber (sweet, but can break your teeth), and Noreen is bubblegum that never loses it flavor (maybe strawberry?)
> 
> Thank you all for your support. I am continually inspired to write and develop this story to the best of my ability for all of you. Whether you're Myreen or Norlock, we are on this crazy rollercoaster ride together !!!!
> 
> Cheers, folks.


	14. One Year, Two Months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Talk of suicide
> 
> For all you Fahrenheit fluent folks, I'm speaking in celsius this chapter!

_Fourteen months later_

_In a prison far far away..._

_"You have a visitor." The cook says this as he watches the man lay prostrate on the ground. The man does not lift his head at the sound of the cook, the same cook who visited him last month. Ironically, the cook brings no food when he visits, only phrases shared between their brotherhood._

_The man is on the verge of starvation, something he has been working at for the past few weeks, and he hoped to die today. But when the usual tray of food was slid under his door this morning, he could not resist the lumpy oatmeal steaming in a small ceramic bowl. His mum used to make him oatmeal._

_Now the man is disappointed in himself. He is weak to not go through with it. If he had a gun, it would be so much easier. He was holding out, and he knew it. After the cook visited him, it gave him hope that he might get out of here. There were so few of his clan left, only three that he knew of. Now four, if you counted the cook. The rest had disappeared with the eagerness of starting over, of escaping a life dedicated to doing the work of the devil. The man, well, he did not mind working for the devil. But then the devil died, and he was left in this cell._

_"Did you hear me?" calls the cook. "You have a visitor."_

_The man decides his attempt at dying will have to wait. A new feeling takes over him: curiosity. Who would come to visit him here? And why send the cook and not a guard?_

_The cook unlocks the door of the cell and steps inside. Remembering his orders, he refrains from placing handcuffs around the man's hands. The man eyes the cook, waiting with hands out and ready to be cuffed._

_"Visitor's orders," states the cook, motioning for the man to head out of the cell._

_The man nods, though deep down he is confused. If his career has taught him one thing, it's to not ask questions. Going with the flow always serves him better. He follows the cook down the hall and through a door he always assumed led to a closet. They pass through several more doors, maneuvering gray rooms and dimly lit hallways. They meet no guards on the way._

_Eventually, the cook stops in front of a heavy metal door. He opens it, steps aside, and nods the man in. The man is numb, immune to any sort of fear. When he steps in, he is met by a wide table. Seated at the table is an older man with a terrible receding hairline. The beard around his mouth is from prehistoric times._

_"Sit," says the older man, motioning to the chair across from him. The man feels the older one search him with dead eyes, the eyes of a bloodthirsty shark. He sits. "I heard why you are in here."_

_The man - the prisoner - does not reply. He's learned it is better not to speak in the presence of authority, and this old man oozes power._

_The old man licks his lips, small bubbles forming at the corners. "I know who you worked for, I know he is dead, and I know every crime you have committed."_

_The man does not know if the older man is admiring or threatening him. He stays silent, breathing through his nose._

_The old man continues. "I know what you want. I can get you out of here, but you have to run an errand for me."_

_The man's blood blazes at the older man's words. He does want something,_ someone. _He swallows to control himself. "What's the errand?" he grumbles, throat hoarse from not speaking._

 _A light shimmers behind the old man's eyes - he is happy the younger man has spoken. "One of your old associates has crossed to the 'good' side. I want you to speak to him, see if his..._ tendencies _still exist."_

_The man looks boredly at the older man. The errand sounds easy enough, though he's sure there is some caveat. But he will wait to find that out later. All he wants is to get out of here._

_"Okay," agrees the younger man, though on the inside he feels vengeful rage building in his chest._

_The older man nods. "It will take some work to get you out of here, but in the meantime, I have arranged for a change in staff. Whatever you wish for will be given to you, besides freedom, of course." The older man smirks, licking his dry lips. The man wants to rip them off._

_"Of course," whispers the young man, clenching his teeth until they almost crack. His first wish: a bouncy ball._

\---

The vehicle pulls to a stop in front of the small brick villa I frequented a few times as a child. Parker's grandma's house is in a small neighborhood of Nunhead, located among dreary identical buildings. Though parts of Nunhead have gone through recent colorful renovations, it seems Mrs. Owens neighborhood has remained the same as always. I am okay with this, used to finding solace in permanent spaces.

At the same time Norman stops at the designated address, my phone buzzes. Pulling it out, I see it's Mycroft. There's no doubt he has been tracking the drive, both from the car and my phone.

_You have my wishes for the best of luck._

My stomach flips around nervously, coaxing my fingers away from a response, for many reasons. I forbid myself to think about the well suited man on the other side of the text, probably seated properly in a chair behind a desk with his fingers tapping on the phone as his eyes drool over work papers and security footage, most likely of me. Oh wait, there we are—I am already thinking about him. That seems to happen a lot lately.

Focus, Noreen.

I am paying a visit to Parker, my dear friend who recently graduated from her rehab program and is now living with her grandmother until she finds another job, and a place to live. Mycroft informed me of her completion of the program and insisted I reach out to her immediately. I, on the other hand, waited for her to reach out to me. There was no need to crowd her, nor was I sure where we stood in our friendship. The last time I had seen her, she was rabid and out for pain. Her words still stung, though less so: _"How does it feel to waste ten months of your life on someone who didn't care enough to stick around?"_

Still, she is the one who texted me, invited me over. Because of this, I want to waste no more time sitting in the car.

"Thank you, Norman," I say, catching his eye in the rearview mirror. Mycroft offered his services seeing as he was at his work office all day—the dungeon one I had yet to go back to.

Norman nods to me. "It's a pleasure, Ms. Jacobs. I will be parked down the street. Please ring when you are ready for me."

My eyebrows furrow. "Didn't Mycroft tell you? I'm taking the tube home."

Norman blinks and stutters momentarily. "Mr. Holmes informed me to take you home in the car, and under no circumstances are you supposed to refuse."

"Is that right?" I chuckle. Mycroft's ego is amazing, really. Normally his controlling behaviors are of no bother to me, but can't a woman get herself home on the tube? He can be very suffocating. Last week he begged me to let him bug my flat in case there was ever an emergency and I couldn't get a hold of him. When I told him that he was really inflated to think I would call him first, he snubbed me and refused to speak for several minutes until he finally told me that if I ever die, it's my own fault.

With this in mind, I speak again with coy confidence to Norman. "Well, if I never ring for you then you can never come to pick me up, right?" I wink at him in the mirror and he nods slightly.

"Understood, Ms. Jacobs." His smile is hesitant, but I trust Norman not to betray me. Though, there is another bone I have to pick with him.

I sigh and wait to close the door. "What did I say about calling me that? It's Noreen. Formalities are for fancy people."

Norman looks nervous. "Mr. Holmes said—"

"Mr. Holmes says a lot of things, Norman." I chuckle. "Sometimes I find it better to stop listening." With that, I shut the door and walk up the small brick path to the front door. Before I reach to knock, a buzz reaches my phone again.

The text, this time, is from Parker: _Door is unlocked. Come inside. I'm in my room._

So that is what I do. Upon entry I find small knick knacks stuffed on shelves, school pictures of little children (including Parker with braces - my personal favorite of her stages), and plants.

"In here!" comes a familiar raspy voice from down a hallway. I follow the sound of Coldplay into a small corner room of the house. On the bed sits a woman with a maroon pixie cut wearing baggy sweatpants and a tight shirt. "Why hello there, stranger," the woman says, and it dawns on me that I am looking at Parker.

"Parker," I greet, stepping forward. We aren't the type to hug, but it has been so long and she is opening up her arms as she rises from the bed, so I accept.

"Noreen, it's so g—it's been so long," she whispers.

Her thin arms envelope me like a feather, while on the other hand I am only using half of my strength and I feel she might crack from my embrace. Parker has always been smaller than me, both in stature and build, but her ribs have never poked through more than they do now.

"Yes, too long," I reply, pulling away and taking her in fully. Here's an odd feeling: looking at someone you've looked at your entire life and finally seeing them for the first time in years. Parker dyed her hair—the short style is something she has fluctuated between since primary school, and it's my preferred style for her—and she has an additional piercing on her right ear, up in the corner. Her dark blue eyes are droopy and tired without the usual wing of makeup flying off her eyelid. She used to never wear lipstick because her mouth was a natural sweetheart tinge of cherry, but her lips have dulled to a pale rose.

"How are you?" I ask, unsure of what else to say. We have been absent from each other's lives for months, yet there is nothing I desire to discuss with her. Distance makes the tongue grow shyer.

She sits down on the far side of the bed and pats a spot next to her. I set my bag down and comply. "I'm good. New hairstyle, new piercing, and... I'm sober." She perks up at that last part, peering at me under her eyelashes as she bites her lip. "I just thought addressing the elephant in the room might help to ease some of the awkwardness," she chuckles nervously, tugging at the back of her head.

"I'm sorry, Parker. I don't mean to be weird," I confess. "I just-I guess I—"

She interrupts me, reaching a comforting hand to my shoulder. "It's okay, Noreen. Ellis acted the same way—"

Now it's my turn to interrupt. "You've seen Ellis?"

"Yes, quite a few times. As friends," she assures me with a giggle, as if I'm the silly one. "But I need to say.. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for.. _lashing out_ that day you came to see me. There was a lot going on. I was taking some stuff, and... The police explained to me Roman was just a small drug smuggler, but to me he was always going on and on about someone else, someone bigger who could ruin my career and my future..." She shakes her head, clearing the thoughts to get back on track. "But it's no excuse for what I said. Just know I'm sorry, and I'm better, and I miss you..." She trails off, sticking her lips out in thought. I briefly pause on her comment about Roman's work. Mycroft never mentioned Roman having a boss? The detail is inconsequential.

Before I can address Parker's apology with a vomit of mushy gushy confessions where I also apologize profusely, profess my love for her, and promise never to waver my attention from her again, she speaks up. "Do you want to get your nose-pierced?"

"What?" I ask, confident that my jaw is dropped to its maximum.

"I've been getting into piercings," she nods with enthusiasm, head bobbing. "Nose is next. Are you in? I think it would look good on your—" she grabs my face, moving it to the left and right, "left side, for sure."

"I—But I'm old," I blurt out, covering my mouth as soon as they escape my mouth.

"Noreen!" she scolds, shifting on the bed as she leans forward. "We promised we'd never say that! You are not old, but if you're going to get your nose pierced it's better to do it now before your old maid age catches up with you."

A long breath fills my lungs, and I take the moment to decide. My best friend who just exited her rehab program is asking me to get my nose pierced? I picture myself wearing a small diamond stud. Would silver or gold look better?

"Noreen, you're doing that thing where you stare off into space and think too much. Yes or no? We don't have ten years for your indecisiveness."

"Fine, yes!" I snap instinctively. The adrenaline of making rushed decisions raises me from the bed so I can grab my bag and follow a patiently waiting Parker. I'm getting my fucking nose pierced.

I like to think this is my version of accepting Parker's apology and moving on with our friendship.

\---

"I can't do it, Park," I cry, reaching for her hand. The needle is dangerously close to my face as the worker tries for a ninth time to stick it in my nose.

Parker shakes with laughter as she holds my arms down. "Noreen, it just hurts for a second, I promise. Jill is a professional, right?" She glances at the woman who is anything but amused at my fear. Jill nods sternly, lips pursed.

I try to gather myself by breathing in and out slowly with my eyes closed, something I have done hundreds of times by now. "Okay, just do it. Get it over with," I whisper while gripping Parker's hand.

"Think of something happy," orders Jill.

"Happy, okay, I can do that," I speak. Happy. What makes me happy?

_Warm lips. A bit of tongue. Chestnut hair. He tastes like rich alcohol, something I would pay to get drunk on. His suit is too pristine, it needs to be messed up. Warm lips, and I want to drag his hand onto my waist._

"Done," announces Jill. My eyes snap open, immediately watering from the small point of pain. Thankfully the memories of the kiss have dissipated - I am back in reality. There is a poster of The 1975 blurring in my vision as Jill maneuvers around some more. After a bit, she orders me off of the cushioned seat and over to the mirror. Parker joins me at my side as we look at ourselves. My stud is small, a tiny diamond in silver. The surrounding skin is slightly red, and Jill informs me it may not look pretty for the next couple days, but they have some liquid solution for me to apply.

I look good. Edgy. New. Not so _generic_ as some might say.

"Happy?" asks Parker, putting an arm around me while we check ourselves out in the mirror.

I smile. "Yes, but mostly because you are back."

Being a few inches shorter than me, she nuzzles her head onto my shoulder. Somehow I have managed to summarize everything I've been feeling since reunited with her: grateful, peaceful, joyful.

She sighs contently. "Me too, Nore. Me too."

\---

_Two days later_

I step out of my building and instantly shiver. Mid-January is occasionally frigid in temperatures ranging from 1 to 2 degrees, and today is one of those days. My puffy coat seems like small armor for the bone chilling cold sneaking in between the folds of my clothing. I scurry towards my waiting spot on the pavement - traffic must be bad if they are not here yet. I take the extra time to watch my breath roll out of my mouth and nostrils.

Ah yes, mid January. Don't worry, Sherlock, we didn't forget your birthday.

Your 30th was celebrated wonderfully this year. For the first time, I braved visiting your grave alone—asking John was out of the question now. It was a nice and peaceful visit. Contrasted from November's all white bouquet, I utilized the jewel tones that had taken over Barney's and crafted a one of a kind arrangement for you. Safari Sunset was a recent addition to our inventory, and it had just peaked in its shade of a rusty berry. Rubicon roses and Minerva carnations added a drop of darkness, but was still offset cleanly with the dusty thistles. I was tempted by the yellows and oranges of yarrows and ranunculuses, but decided those might best be used in the summertime when they could match the shade of the sun.

Thankfully no one else was in the cemetery, so I was free to speak aloud. Still, I felt crazy talking to your granite gravestone, but your presence was evident in the breeze and blowing leaves. It was good to catch you up on my life. I think this was the only time you listened silently while I spoke, though the circumstances were less than ideal. I will always prefer impatient interruptions and cocky eye rolls.

Our little bonding session went so well that I even confessed to you my hideous crush on your brother. I like to think you support it, whatever _it_ is. I don't know what _it_ is. All I know is _it_ has affected me in a way I can't describe, by grinding my insides and recalling his smell into my nose and making his image take up all the space in my head.

That's how I spent that hour, talking to you. It was so easy to sit by your carved name and spill my guts.

Afterwards, I pub hopped with Greg and Molly. We cheers-ed to your name while clinking glasses, swapped long ago tales, and enjoyed the fact that the three of us could share in communal laughs. Your birthday was exactly like how I saw every year in the future going: visiting you, then visiting with our friends.

Now, as I watch the silver sedan slide up to meet me on the pavement, I must visit with your own blood.

When the car halts I waste no time hopping in, desperate to escape the cold. The inside heat instantly warms my throbbing face and calms the rosy redness that has crept onto the tip of my nose. Speaking of my nose, when I turn to face Mycroft, I find him staring right at it.

"What. Is. That?" he spits, lips pressing tightly as his eyebrows lower into frown.

My fingers reach up to touch my small stud and I suddenly remember the new addition to my facial features. Chuckling, I say, "A nose stud. Got it pierced two days ago."

"Why?" His glare is prominent and prodding.

"Why not? It's a nice change," I chirp, breaking away from his gaze to glance out the window. The disgust exuding from him only works to make me happier. Something about his disapproval sends streaks of heat to my core, and I ponder what else I can do that warrants such a reaction from Mycroft Holmes.

Today he is carting us to Central London. Apparently there exists a coffee shop and garden shop morphed into one, thus providing the perfect opportunity to drink a beverage and browse plants for the garden project. I had never heard of this heaven-on-earth place so he offered to take me there on "work business".

"I can't even bear to look at you with it in," he insists, speaking with tangible distaste.

"Really?" I fight back a skeptical laugh when I turn and find he is still watching me. Heat builds at the base of my neck as I burn under the intensity of his stare. Still, I manage to speak my crafty comeback. "Then why have your eyes not left me since I entered the car?"

"Oh please," he mutters. It's his turn to look out the window, wetting his lips and shifting his body away from me. He always has to shift away from me. The fact he even starts by facing me, by giving me his ridiculously large undivided attention, is enough to send my stomach in swirls.

"Why do you hate it?" I ask, heaving a hefty sigh. By asking this question I am inciting many more lofty opinions I am sure to disagree with. But bickering with Mycroft is too fun to pass up.

He dares to graze over me again with those grey eyes, light and fluffy as the clouds today. He zeroes in on the stud in my nose, then I watch as his vision zooms out and he observes the entirety of my face. I wish he would look at me forever.

"Vermeer didn't go back and add a pearl necklace to the Girl with a Pearl Earring," he sneers.

I roll my eyes. "I'm not a painting, Mycroft."

He returns with a disgruntled flicker of annoyance. "Art is perfect when the artist deems it to be done. Museums do not consider applying additions to masterpieces." His annoyance has melted to a soft upturn of his lips, noticeable only if you know him well enough to look for it. I'm sure he has just flirted with me in some regard—only Mycroft Holmes flirts by referring to a woman as art that should not be ruined by minuscule change—but as usual I spend more time deciphering his words than thinking to flirt back.

This has been the hell I have lived my life in for the last month. He flirts with me helplessly, usually only recognizable to me hours after I have left his presence. He does it when we're working, eating dinner, texting, taking walks, drinking, bickering, reading.

_"That red blouse you wore yesterday was the color of ripe roses. They're quite eye-catching flowers, aren't they?"_

_"Sometimes I think your brain should be donated to a museum and placed on a shelf for viewing. I might be its only admirer, but still."_

_"Your capacity to care for others, for me in particular, is both fascinating and disturbing. Do show me more."_

It seems the kiss has only perpetuated the frisky monster inside of him, causing him to finally say what's on his mind instead of biting it back and instead biting my head off. The word "flirting" itself is a strange term to associate with Mycroft, or our relationship. But what's better? Wooing? Courting? Oh god, he is _courting_ me. The man has sleeve garters - flirtation is too modern of a term for him.

What's worse is that the kiss has never been mentioned between us. After the holidays, life went back to usual. It seems I live in the 2013 we began together in my flat while he participates in the real one with the rest of the world. To him, the kiss must have never happened. Therefore, I am determined to believe and act the same. We have shoved the kiss in a box. Then locked the box. Then put the box in a chest. And then threw the chest overboard a ship. Then watched the chest sink deep into the sand and bury itself, never to be found. It is a treasure no one looks for.

My left hand rests on the seat next to me and I feel a soft pat on it. "We've arrived," Mycroft informs me. It's his own hand that's on mine - no wonder it's so warm. He leaves his fingers atop mine for a moment longer and we both take a second to size the other up: I breathe in his forest green tie tucked into a dark colored Glen Check plaid suit. He looks younger today, filled with a youthful buoyancy that flushes his neck and face. His teeth bite the inside of his cheek, a telltale sign he is thinking through one million thoughts per second, all of which fly by me mysteriously. I wonder if I am in any of them.

Me, on the other hand, I'm sure he notices I need a haircut soon since I've vowed not let it grow past the tops of my shoulders. Maybe he spots the little scratch by my right ear - a gift from Mister this morning since he thought it would be cute to wake me up by nipping at my hairline. It's possible Mycroft might detect my change in body soap, where I opted for almond instead of cucumber. Or maybe he observes nothing at all, not even my added layer of pale pink lipstick I scooped up on the way home the other day, the same color as the bar of soap he keeps in his guest bathroom.

Lately we've been lingering on each other too much. My blushing face is the first to break the silence and end our admiration, prompting us both to clear our throats, let our eyes dart away, thank Norman, and exit out our separate car doors.

We join at the hip to stroll up the small walkway to the entrance. A man and child exit the door, holding it open for us to walk through. When we enter the surprisingly large building, my eyes turn to hearts. Plants drape along the ceiling, walls, and floor while decorative flowers dust the details of the shelves. Straight ahead there is a small set of counters with baristas, and the smell of coffee wafts in our direction. In one rather large section of the store, to my right, I spot gardening supplies such as fertilizer and tools, and there are even bird feeders and lawn decor. Off to my left, several meters away, is a large greenhouse attached by some automatic sliding doors. Through the windows I can see rows and rows of fresh plants, shrubs, baby trees, and flowers. Interspersed are colorful tables for two or three people to sit at and enjoy drinks and a chat among the living green creatures.

"This is... wonderful," I mumble.

Mycroft steps up next to me. "Heaven on earth, yes?"

I glance at him, wide eyed and dazed. "Hell yes! I mean.. heaven yes." We both chuckle. "But seriously," I continue, "how did you find this? It doesn't look this big from the outside. You can't even see the greenhouse!"

His eyes wander around the store and out to the glassy globe where tables await for us to sit at. "Pure luck. Before I hired her to be the landscaper, Ms. Maxen suggested we meet here to discuss plans for the garden. As soon as I stepped in here I knew you would need to visit." He sends a prideful look my way, thriving off of impressing me.

"I believe the coffee is calling my name," I swiftly reply. "And the Night Flowering catchfly. You _need_ that in your garden."

"What is that?" Mycroft asks, following my steps as I lead us towards the counter to order.

"You'll have to wait and see," I inform him, earning a frown of impatience in return. "It's worth the wait, I promise."

"Few things are," he answers, letting his eyes muse over me.

Before letting my face turn the color of pink azaleas—I don't know why it's always doing this when he's around—the barista asks for our order.

"A small flat white over ice, please." I glance at Mycroft, indicating for him to order next.

"Small Earl Grey," he says, already reaching into his coat pocket. Because I knew he would try to pay, I readied my card early so I could hand it to the cashier.

"Noreen," he groans under his breath, having noticed I beat him to it.

"What?" I ask, feigning innocence. The cashier hands my card back and I slip it into my small wallet and mosey over to the waiting area. Mycroft is right on my tracks, almost bumping into me when I come to a halt. His body passes against mine delicately, and I have the sudden urge to burn my articles of clothing he has touched. His peppery scent will be all over them by the end of day. I will need to start a load of laundry.

After receiving our drinks, we traipse out to the greenhouse area. We spend time wandering the rows of plants and discussing what might look best in the garden. Actually, I discuss my vision and he listens attentively, asking questions occasionally. When I ask for his opinion he merely brushes me off, reminding me this is my project and I am to do as I wish. He wants no part in the project other than providing the resources and to bask in the final product.

Eventually we sit down at a small yellow table amidst neighbors of baby dwarf willows, myrtles, and blood orange trees. A waft of lavender trails through the air beside us as a customer carries away a few plots to buy. I wonder where they will be displaying the scentful plant. Do they have a garden? I hadn't even considered the differing smells that might be evoked by a mixing of plants.

"What are you thinking about?" After asking me this question he sips at his tea and awaits my response.

"Don't you already know?" I reply, cocking an eyebrow.

He exhales a breathy laugh and looks pointedly at me. "I'm not a mindreader, although I can tell some anxiety sits atop your brain. I'd prefer you tell me rather than wasting time playing twenty questions."

I sigh, conceding with an eye roll. There are times I'd much rather he deduce my feelings out of me rather than forcing me to string along words and sentences. But he is determined to hear me speak, so I do.

"It's just that.. I'm a florist, Mycroft, not a gardener. Arranging flowers and arranging gardens are two completely different tasks. In a bouquet, there's only so much space to fill. But your backyard? Much like the rest of your living arrangements, it's quite large. And sure, I can pick out a stem of windflowers in a field of poppies, but I know nothing about mixing scents and soils and fertilizer! It's a completely different game, one I know no rules about."

I end my exacerbated rant and watch him take another careful sip of his tea, slightly simpering behind his cup.

"What?" I ask, insecurity flooding my insides. I am afraid my worries are only amusing jokes to the man who deals with international criminals on the daily.

He sets his drink down and raises his eyebrows like he is going to divulge something. "Noreen," he states, placing his elbows on the table and interlocking his fingers. "There is a reason I chose you for this project. I could have asked any florist or gardener—"

"You spend time with other florists?" I tease.

He blinks slowly, shaking his head. "No, but my connections are far-reaching. Buckingham Palace has quite the skill set available."

His obvious snobbishness is hilarious. Nobody besides Mycroft Holmes would have connections to the gardening team at the Palace. I chuckle and lean back in my seat. "And let me guess - I should be so fortunate that you took mercy upon my poor old soul and chose me instead of some humpty-dumpty high class gardening extraordinaire?"

His eyes light up momentarily. "Stop your hideous self-deprecation and listen to me. I chose you because I have been quite encapsulated by your skills since our first meeting in Barney's. While I do not pretend to understand your allure towards the mundane task of constructing bouquets, I have come to appreciate the craft of it, and particularly how much effort you put into it. I only expected all this might translate over when given a bigger canvas to work with, that being a garden."

I pause to think through what he said. "Thank you," I reply, darting my eyes down to my coffee. "But from what I remember, you were not too impressed by me when we first met. You called me bland," I say, letting my mind roll back bitterly over the memory. Who would have thought I would be sitting across from that stiff man I could barely fathom was your brother?

"That's not the first time we met," Mycroft corrects, sitting up straighter in his chair.

"But—"

"We met months before that," he interrupts.

"No, there's no way," I counter, shaking my head. I would have remembered.

He smirks. "Who do you think originally told John to go into Barney's? There are plenty of other flower shops in London he could have gone to. You think he just stumbled into yours by mistake?"

_Mycroft checks the directions on his phone again to see he is a few streets down from his destination: a flower shop. His parents are in town and he wants to surprise Mummy with flowers when he greets them at 221B. He is sure they will already be in a mood thanks to Sherlock and his inability to host guests. Thankfully Dr. Watson will be present, and perhaps Mrs. Hudson will have tea and biscuits readily available._

_After crossing a few streets, Mycroft spots the storefront. A small sign indicates it is "Barney's Bouquets," though some of the letters are peeling and it needs a good wash. He is already too late to find another shop, so he walks in anyways and hopes to not be disappointed._

_A surprisingly large amount of people mill about. He slips between customers, eyeing the rows of neatly made bouquets placed in chilled fridges and strung up on shelves. There are a few bouquets he might deem fit for Mummy, though none of them are tempting enough for him to reach out and grab. He imagined she might like a deep burgundy and burnt orange._

_"May I help you?" comes a voice from beside him. God, how he hates customer service. Nonetheless, he turns to face whoever has offered him unwelcome assistance. The source of his immediate annoyance is a woman a few inches shorter than he is. She is dressed in terribly stained trousers and a worn down work shirt. Her hair reminds Mycroft of curly noodles, though the shade is that of a sweet bar of chocolate. Even her eyes are the same milky texture, swirling around behind lashes. "Sir?" she asks again, fidgeting with her hands. He realizes his silence makes her nervous._

_"I am looking for flowers," he speaks, glancing around. He decides to leave out the fact that it's for his mother. This woman need not know much about him. "Do you have any other choices besides these?"_

_Her eyes flick over the ones left in the fridge he points at. "If none of our pre-made bouquets work, I can custom create one," she offers, looking more at ease now that he has spoken his wants. "That is, if you have the extra time."_

_He nods. "That would do well. I picture burgundy and burnt orange—something that speaks to early Fall."_

_"Yes, I can do that. You can wait by the counter while I gather some flowers." She points Mycroft towards the back of the store and he strolls over. In a few minutes, she has returned with an armload of varying colors. He makes no comment about it, but they are the exact colors he had in mind._

_The two don't speak while she puts together the bouquet. He watches her pick a vase, insert the foam, and begin the arranging process. Her hands are careful and efficient, managing to put the flowers sternly in their place while treating the petals daintily. A simple watch decorates her left wrist, while her ring finger is left blank. Her eyes are well rested, which is a nice break from the sickly faces of other young professionals he comes across on a daily basis. Though, he might not consider her a young_ professional— _just a young woman, unmarried, no pets, and quite attune to arranging flowers. However, the way in which other employees address her with simple questions, it's obvious she is in charge. But she answers so kindly, with no judgment despite the fact that he doesn't work here and could answer the questions himself, that's how easy they are. No, there's no air of arrogance around her, and she is not trying to compensate in power._

_A young employee comes up to her, reporting that the woman's father has called and wishes to discuss a marketing campaign that he learned from another small shop. The woman sighs, telling the young boy she will call when she is free. Now she seems tired, and Mycroft wonders if her father calls a lot. He must have some stake in the business, though he defers to her judgment and decision._

_So, she is the business owner. Mycroft is glad no one can hear him admit he is wrong; she is in fact a young professional._

_When she is finished with her creation, he pays and leaves out the door, waiting outside for his driver to arrive. Once in the car, he observes the bouquet more closely. It's the closest thing to perfection he has seen all year. Before he can forget, he bookmarks the flower shop in his mind, deciding it might be a useful place for another time. The florist was not so incompetent as he might have judged from the outside of the store._

_Upon handing it over, Mummy loves the bouquet and she coos over it as if Mycroft has given her the whole world. He is pleased with himself, and silently grateful to the florist who pieced it together._

_Later that night, while brushing his teeth before bed, the florist's face creeps into his mind. He is unsure why, seeing as they shared no conversation and she made no impression on him outside of her arranging abilities, which were actually quite magnificent. He tries to recall her name, then insults her ownership skills, for what kind of business does not require name tags on all employees? He decides she is good-looking, and that must be why she pops into his mind. But she was horribly boring. Perhaps if she was not so passive to the world she lived in—merely just creating and selling constantly decaying products—he might have tried to entice her in conversation. But he knew how conversations with normal people went: nowhere, because of how dreadfully boring goldfish can be._

_Approximately two months later he is in 221B listening to his brother and Dr. Watson arguing. Dr. Watson is due for a date with a woman, but poor Sherlock is begging John to assist him on a case._

_"I already told you no, Sherlock. And I need to leave to pick up flowers now or I'll be late. God, the flowers! I don't even know the nearest shop..."_

_Mycroft momentarily tunes Dr. Watson out as he recalls a certain dark-featured florist._

_"Barney's Bouquets," Mycroft tells John. "I give them my highest recommendation."_

_John thanks him and exits out the door with a mopey Sherlock trailing after him. Mycroft knew he saved the name of that establishment for a reason. He hopes John's lady friend enjoys her flowery gift as much as Mummy did._

"So I have you to thank for sending Sherlock my way," I mumble, combing through my memory to try and recall a tall, stern, suited man in my shop. "That must have been some bouquet I made if you recommended it to John. Why did you never come back if you thought my shop was so good?" I ask, still shell-shocked that I didn't remember our interaction, though it sounded quite brief and forgettable.

"I never needed flowers again." Mycroft looks away, the edges of his eyes crinkling as his lips pursed. "Besides, I obviously wasn't important enough for you to remember after coming in the first time. What difference would a second visit have made?" His voice is playful, but there is an icy edge.

I roll my eyes at his dramatics. "How was I supposed to remember you, Mycroft? I have hundreds of customers who come in every week."

"You had no problem remembering Sherlock," he retorts, chewing on this inside of his cheek and tapping his fingers against the tabletop.

I sigh, trying to lighten the growing tension I sense. "Yes, well, he made sure he was memorable. He kept coming back in. You never did."

Mycroft looks longingly at me, lips pressing together in a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. In fact, it's barely a smile at all, just a measly attempt. "And maybe that's my biggest mistake."

Dry air floats through my brain. I am still amazed he has kept our first meeting a secret from me, but I assume it's out of the embarrassment that I don't remember him, which I don't. Still, he's acting odd. His eyes are setting sights on the plants around us instead of on me. Just as he read my anxiety in that flower shop a year and many months ago, I read his now. When he gets nervous or fearful, he stops looking at me. His reaction to any sort of uncomfortability that comes from being in my presence or being my friend is manifested by a physical determination to make me disappear; maybe if I don't exist, neither will these feelings he experiences.

And like he spoke in the flower shop to ease my customer service related anxiety, I speak now, too: "Well you haven't made another mistake by choosing me for this job. Just as I made Mummy's bouquet the equivalent of perfection, I will work to do the same for the garden."

Even though my stomach explodes into fits of nervousness and uncertainty at the thought of manning the garden project that is completely out of my knowledge or comfort zone, the delighted beam that Mycroft Holmes gives me is much stronger in potency.

"But I have one condition," I say, holding up a finger.

"Do tell," he whispers, leaning over the table so he is dangerously close.

"No more hiding things from me. I don't like that you kept our first meeting a secret. I hate secrets. I'm always kept out of them. From now on, you have to tell me everything, or else." I finish my sentence with my nose held high. I demand respect in my friendships, though I don't usually voice it so. But something about Mycroft hiding our initial encounter puts a bad bug under my skin, and because I already have no problem telling him off as it is, I might as well make my expectations very clear. No lying, no hiding.

"Or else what?" he asks, face going still.

My mind scrambles to think of a threat. Stupidly, I said it without actually having a threat. Hm. What would piss Mycroft off the most? What would be the best punishment?

I cock my eyebrows and head in for the kill. "I will leave you alone."

He begins to protest that, in fact, he enjoys being left alone, but I cut him off. There he goes, lying again!

"Don't pretend my presence has not become an expected luxury. You can barely survive a week without me." I pay no mind to my ego soaring through the roof as I say this. To feel needed by somebody is to feel power, and when the most powerful man in London requires your attention, you start to feel quite important.

He stares at me for a moment longer. I watch his eyes, waiting to see some slip of the grey that indicates there is more he must share with me. Like, for example, maybe he wants to kiss me as much as I want to kiss him right now? Noreen! I mentally shame myself, dragging my eyes away from his lips and back up to his eyes.

But he doesn't waver. Instead, he merely smirks and nods his head.

"Noreen, you have my word. I would have all of London sink before I utter a lie to you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you hear that, people? All of London will burn before Mycroft Holmes lies to Noreen Jacobs. Remember that, hold onto that... And I will see you next time on Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives *cue music* (lol, I love the 'Murican food channel)
> 
> Question: What's your favorite quote from the show? I try to read through them to get a sense of the way the character's speak. My english is much more informal than the Holmes, so it's always a lil difficult to capture their voice. I think one of my favs is:
> 
> "A nice murder. That'll cheer you up." 
> 
> Not only is it hilarious that Mrs. Hudson says this, but it captures the show so so perfectly.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, voting, commenting, and just being downright lovely peoples. I am so excited for the next two chapters, you have no clue. Actually, I'm excited for the whole damn book. Apologies in advance if the next two take a bit to get out! They are well worth the wait (I hope)
> 
> Cheers!


	15. One Year, Three Months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Sexual content... It's short and sweet and poetic. Some may be disappointed by my saying this, others relieved. Either way, you have been warned!

_Fifteen months after_

_In a prison far far away..._

_The ball thunks repeatedly against the wall and the floor, then back into the man's hand. The old man had made it clear that the younger man could request whatever he pleased, but the old man did not understand: he was already going to give the younger man everything he ever wanted._

_On this day, this horridly monotonous day, indistinguishable from any other, a set of footsteps approached the man's cell. He learned this isolation was no punishment, but actually privilege. The two guards who routinely checked on him were there more for bending to his every wish and need rather than keeping him inside the cell, though the younger man was to stay locked up until the older man requested his departure._

_The man had memorized these scurrying and scraping footsteps by now. He never understood why people could not pick their feet up and walk simply, without dragging the heel of their shoe against the ground. As the scraping continued, the man's jaw flexed in anger. Suddenly he had a wish: to cut off the feet of the cook he knew was approaching his cell. It did not matter that this man was on his side and once a person he might consider family. Family can still kill family._

_The cook finally reaches the bars of the man's cell. His griminess has only gotten worse over the past few weeks, though he has been promised to be treated like royalty as payment for his secrets and sneaking._

_As the cook lays eyes on the man, he gulps. The man makes the cook nervous, only because since the cook approached, the man has increased the strength with which he throws the bouncy ball against the wall across from him. The cook remembers the man from their early days. Even back then, there was something off about the man. The cook recalls watching the man shoot stray dogs for fun while they waited for their human targets. This bothered him only because killing humans was purposeful - they did things wrong - but dogs only longed for food and love._

_The cook puts off these memories, and instead focuses on the words he will speak that will change everything. Once he utters these words, plans will be set in motion that cannot be undone. The spilt oil on the cook's shirt rises in scent to his nose, and he scrunches it up before exhaling through his nostrils and deciding he wants nothing more than to take a decent shower, and speaking these words will get him there._

_"Scandinavia calls on Britain."_

_The man catches the bouncy ball and closes his eyes, breathing in the last smells of his cell. which he will soon be leaving. When he opens them again, he faces the cook. But he doesn't see the cook, he only sees her. Her dark hair, scared eyes, wrists he longs to grasp again._

_Happy Valentine's Day, beautiful._

\---

Upon waking this morning, I had two thoughts:

1\. My bladder is going to explode with massive amounts of pee from staying up and drinking tea

2\. Mycroft Holmes and I had sex last night.

Allow me to explain the second one further.

\---

_Five days earlier: Thursday, February 14th_

I find many things funny: late night talk-show hosts, cats chasing laser pointers, and little kids cursing.

One thing I find horrendously _unfunny_ is the tendency of some single people to complain when February 14th rolls around every year. Perhaps not every single person follows the same pattern of dissing on red roses and boxes of chocolate, but nonetheless, I find it infuriating that the one holiday centered solely around love is simultaneously hated on by those who crave love the most.

But back to the distressing person that is Mycroft Holmes, who continues to haunt my daydreams and night-dreams.

I was enjoying my morning cup of coffee and preparing for the long day ahead. Valentine's Day has become a store holiday for Barney's. The whole crew was being called in, including the new worker whom was still replacing Max. While I still spent most of my days at Barney's, the new worker mostly covered my own shifts.

The knock that came to my door was as unexpected. Seeing as I was still in my pyjamas, I grabbed a spare football jumper that was slung over the couch and hoped I could get by with just peeking my head out the door so as not to display my very bare legs.

Being the prepared and paranoid woman I am, I stole a careful glance out the peephole. Really, though, who visits someone's flat at 5:30am? I must say, part of me already knew who it would be. There is only one person who would show up unannounced to my residency.

When I saw the familiar suit and tie through the glass, I rolled my eyes and unlocked the door, hoisting it open for Mycroft.

"To what do I owe the pleasure—"

"You need to pack a bag this instant and come with me. Your life is in grave danger." While saying this, he deemed it acceptable to storm past me and into my home, umbrella in hand, slapping his expensive, shiny shoes on my dulled floor.

"Good morning. Would you like a cuppa?" I asked, shutting the door and locking it once more. Sometimes it's better to ignore Mycroft's moods and pretend everything is normal, which is what I decided to do. But when I turned to put on a kettle and calm his nerves - yes, occasionally Mycroft Holmes gets frazzled and requires a nice cup of tea to soothe him - he was standing so close that our chests bumped and his nose knocked against my forehead.

"Noreen," he hissed, eyes wild with mania never before exhibited. Sure, I had witnessed Mycroft in states of anger and annoyance, but never the sort of fear that crossed over his face now. Fear mixed with fury, a sort of vengeful wrath that oozed out of the worry lines creasing his eyes.

"Mycroft," I spoke back, sweetness coating the corners of my voice.

His eyes blinked with a cold depth as his jaw tightened in frustration. "Did you not hear me? You are in danger. You must come with me immediately."

"Is this some sort of last minute romantic gesture for Valentine's Day?" I teased, pretending to wipe dust from the shoulder of his suit. The small touch was enough to heighten my heartbeat. There was a trust in him letting me touch him in small ways like this. He never reciprocated, only elbowing me once in a while if I stood too close or got on his nerves. but there was free reign with my hands. If only it was the same for my lips.

His lips only dug deeper into his face, planting themselves firmly in a frown meant to dissuade me from continued flirtation. Looking back on this, I am surprised by my forwardness. We had not kissed since our New Year's, yet from then until now and all the time in-between, an electric pulse ran between every bump of our bodies and every glance of our eyes. There was a possessiveness in us, one that had grown as subtly as a flower leaving winter and entering spring - day by day you did not see a change, but over time our relationship had become unrecognizable from the days he tried persuading me to visit a therapist. Whereas before our presence around each other was inconsequential and hardly noticeable, his tall form standing next to my own had become as expected as breathing. There was no formal agreement, of course, but it had bloomed as if we had carefully watered it. Mycroft would never speak of this, nor would I, and yet it was clear as day. Or so I would think this until he said otherwise.

Noreen belonged to Mycroft, and Mycroft belonged to Noreen.

Perhaps that's why he felt it was okay to order me around right now. Of course, he did this before there was any sort of fluff between us.

He briefly wet his lips before continuing. "While I might normally lie and manipulate you into coming somewhere with me to keep you safe, I have opted for a different tactic. Telling the truth. Now I will say it again, Noreen, you are in danger and must come with me." His cheeks were turning to cherries as he tried to bite back the force in his voice. Mycroft always spoke with such eloquence and ease, so it was clear that emotion fought to rain down now.

I took a deep breath, hoping it would calm both of us. "Mycroft," I said, pulling back my shoulders and straightening so we were only a few inches apart in height, "you have to explain what is going on. Barging in here and telling me my life will end if I don't go somewhere with you is—"

"Carver has escaped."

There are moments when you hear words and your heart drops straight through your rib cage and out of your bum. Your mouth goes dry and your stomach clenches. Your arms and legs become noodles, shaking as if a harsh wind pushes them around.

"What?" I managed to ask, though every part of me was entrenched in a shaky uncertainty.

"Carver, the man hunting you, he escaped his prison cell precisely one hour ago. We have reason to believe he is coming to find you. In order to secure your safety, you need to come with me to a safe house."

My head was shaking furiously from side to side. "No. No no no. No."

"There is no time to waste. We must leave, now." Mycroft glanced around my flat, heading towards the coffee table where he grabbed my copy of Wuthering Heights. I watched him slink around, reaching into a storage cupboard to pull out a small overnight bag. He slipped the book in, then headed into my bedroom. When did he learn where everything was kept?

I followed after him, standing in the doorframe of my room and watching him grab a pair of trousers from my dresser, along with a jumper.

"Get dressed," he ordered, tossing the clothes on the bed. I glanced down, remembering I wore only shorts and a jumper.

"You forgot the bra and knickers," I replied, stepping forward to stop his rifling hands. Though my comment was intended to lighten the mood more so than actually chastise him, he pulled away and glared at me anyways.

"Fine. Pick out your outfit, then. But hurry, we need to go, now. Carver could be—"

"My outfit is already picked out," I said, walking to my closet where a pair of black work trousers and a red shirt with "Barney's Bouquets" printed on the left breast were hanging. Slung over another hanger was one of the many aprons from the shop, though it was my special one - black, with three red hearts sewn across the middle, and an arrow piercing through them.

"You are not going to work, Noreen. You are coming with me." Mycroft stepped towards me. While he towered over me a few inches, I felt no fear.

"No. I'm. Not." I stomped towards him, standing on my tippy toes momentarily so we were the same height. "It's Valentine's Day. Barney's will be busy, and I cannot leave my team. They need me."

Mycroft's eyes glanced between my own as his lips struggled into a sternly straight line. I continued my tirade.

"And no psychopathic stalker is going to stop me. I need to make bouquets because people need to buy them."

"You need to be protected," he added in, eyes considerably softer than they were moments before.

"Then station the whole bloody military in the store and around it. If your agents can protect me at this safe house, they can protect me at Barney's. Or are you doubting the strength of your own team?" I narrowed my eyes at him, daring him to try and cross me.

"But it will be safer if you are with me," he whispered, head dipping down to eye the ground for a moment.

"You are welcome to work the cash register then," I said, reaching behind him and into the closet. I pulled out the apron and draped it over his head, fluffing it out and fitting it around his suit.

My enjoyment at this action was unmatched. I swear he had tattooed a look of disappointment and annoyance onto his face. If he had not been so frustrating, I might have tried to kiss it off and change it into that smile I was occasionally lucky enough to see, the one where his lips lifted and his eyes bristled like a fireplace.

"This is not a joking matter." Surprisingly, he made no move to take off the apron. Instead, he stared at me longer and harder, studying me with metal eyes.

I let my mind wander, for only a second. If I did go with him, then I would have to call Becca and explain to her why she was now in charge while I cruised off into the distance to some safe house. Lying was the first option that came to mind, but it sat uneasy in the pit of my stomach. As for my family, there was no doubt they would be worried out of their minds. I had been more absent in the past three months than I was in the past 30 years.

Not to mention, Carver was after me. The thought clouded dread over my body as I remembered the crazed look beating in his irises, and how he attacked me so swiftly and secretly. While I got away from his last several attempts, what if this one was successful? How would he hurt me? Would I live to tell the tale. And if he found me at Barney's, would he kill the others? My coworkers' faces passed through my vision, and the chill creeping up my neck felt like guilt washing over me. Maybe if he saw I wasn't there, he would leave them alone and he would be led far away and they could be safe. But what about my parents?

I looked up, readying to ask Mycroft what protections were in place for my family, but the sight of him did me in.

Mycroft's lips poked out into a thoughtful pout, and his head was tilted down so he peered at me from under nervous wrinkles on his forehead. Desperation was not a word I ever associated with the man, but I now took in his drooping shoulders, rosy cheeks, and hanging eyes. _Please, Noreen. Come with me,_ they begged. That, and the apron he still wore without complaint, was enough to tip the scales.

I had to go.

As if he saw the change of gears in my head, he perked up before I could even open my mouth and sigh with genuine annoyance.

"Fine. I will go," I announced, shaking my head at him. "Only because I care about my coworkers and family. I don't want to give Carver any reason to think I am with them." I stuck my nose up in the air, hoping I feigned bravery well. Mycroft went to speak, but I cut him off. "Before I go, I need to make calls to rearrange for my absence at work. And how will my family be—"

"It's all been taken care of," he interrupted. I should have expected him to control the entire situation before even allowing my confirmation. Yet, I still boiled with fresh anger.

"Mycroft, you can't—"

"There is an agent who will assist at Barney's today. They have been trained on the basics of arranging bouquets, as well as customer service. If Carver enters the premises, people are on standby to disarm. Your coworkers have been informed that you were picked for an award as a shop owner in London, and that your all expense paid trip starts today and ends at an undisclosed time. Because you have memory slips and bad organizational skills, I believe they were all understanding when they were informed you had forgotten to mention it to them, both the award and the vacation." He took a breath, then continued. "Additionally, all members of your family are under close surveillance. Their homes are being monitored, and if Carver were to even step within shouting distance, he will be demobilized. Your family has been informed of this award, and a copy it was delivered to your parents' address as proof. When they call you, as I'm sure they have since being informed of this information approximately fifteen minutes ago, you will follow this story and not tell them a thing. We do not believe Carver will try to harm your family, only you and those who stand in his way."

My thoughts were still stuck on the award he mentioned. "How did you manage to make up a fake award and have it be printed as proof? Do you just have ideas laying around for whenever there is a crisis?"

He smirked, basking in my agreement to go with him. Oh how he loved to explain his little plans to me.

"And you know what?" I said, poking him in the chest, right on the hearts lining the apron. "I don't appreciate you planning out everything without my consent. You can't control me, Mycroft. I am my own person. I hate when you do this."

His stupid smirk only grew. "No you don't," he chuckled. Now he was in a good mood again, and I suspected he faked the puppy dog face earlier only to convince me. "You try to control so much of your life that you find it refreshing when someone else does it for you."

I wanted to yell at him and tell him that I also hate when he is right, but that would only fuel his ego. Instead, I turned around and headed towards a closet near the bathroom to get out two small animal carriers.

He followed me out, and when he saw what I held, he huffed. "No. Absolutely not," he spat, almost stomping his foot for good measure.

Placing my hands on my hips, I used what little leverage I could. "If you want me to be safe, then Mister and Missus have to be kept safe, too."

Fifteen minutes later, it was the four of us packed in a car and headed to God-knows-where.

\---

Mycroft driving was a shock to the system. It's not that he didn't look comfortable and natural behind the wheel of the sedan, taking smooth turns and speeding safely through the lanes. No, it was the fact that he actually did something for himself for once.

I actually laughed when I saw him get in the driver's seat, but he quickly informed me that he would not require Norman to drive since our time spent away would be for an unknown duration. Normally, Mycroft would have another driver, but there was no time for other arrangements this morning, and bodies were needed elsewhere - like to be stationed at this _safe house_ we would be staying at.

It felt a little too Twilight-esque for me, all the planning and safekeeping. I only hoped Mycroft would not try and turn me into a vampire by the end of our time together.

"Where are we going, exactly?" I asked, once we were on the road. I had been following the turns and twists, noting that we were heading slowly south.

Mycroft was a careful driver, never taking his eyes off of the road. He answered while I watched his eyes dance from car-to-car that passed us. "You have visited my home in East Chiswick, my 'in-betweener'. And today you will be visiting another home, one I do not get to visit as often but that I enjoy all the same, if not more."

I kept stealing glances at him in the driver's seat, one hand perched high on the wheel while the other was steady at the bottom. He looked like you, the one time you drove me, Sherlock. It was a sudden occurrence, and I still don't know whose vehicle it was that you borrowed, but I remember us speeding through the streets of London. The memory is small, and something I have not thought of since then. Where were we going? The detail escapes me as I search and search my head for it, but it is nowhere.

This is how memories have been lately. You are clear as daylight in all of them, but the edges and details have become blurred by time.

As I looked at Mycroft, I saw you. Each of you men is separate in my head, but blending in brotherhood and the odd coincidence of your caring towards me.

_Curls flying, eyes calculating an efficient route, one hand planted lazily on the gears. You give me a fleeting glance, one that rocks my entire world as I slip into the ocean of your blues. I resist an urge to peck you on the cheek, knowing you will reprimand my display of affection. I am content to sit in the car in silence, watching you, letting you escort us around._

A ringing in my pockets breaks your face apart as I dash to grab it.

"Hello?"

"Noreen, what is going on? You won an award?" My dad's voice roared through the phone, and I pulled it away slightly so my eardrums wouldn't get damaged.

I glanced at Mycroft before saying anything and he nodded me on, reminding me of my script. "Yes, dad, I won an award and completely forgot to mention it."

"That's wonderful, Noreen, really. But why do you have to leave on Valentine's Day? That's our biggest day of the year. Do your mum and I need to go to the store and help out? It's not fair that you left Becca and them all alone without you to manage."

"Dad, it's fine. I found a..." My voice trailed off and I looked at Mycroft again, as if to confirm the story I must stick with. He nodded. I go on with my lie. "I found a replacement. They're a friend of mine, very skilled, and—"

There's a shuffling on the other line, and my mum's voice breaks through.

"Noreen, I thought you were dedicated to the business. You cannot take off at a moment's notice. This is very unprofessional. Do you not care about Barney's?"

"Mum," I yelled, trying to cut off her manic questioning. "Mum, I'm sorry. But this trip is very important for me. I'll-um-there will be business and flower classes for me to take on this vacation, so I can-erm-better my management skills. For free."

There is a biting silence. "Mhmm," she finally said. "Well I'm glad this is so good for you, Noreen. Why care about the business, or your own family, when you can care for yourself? Very mature, very good. It's not like you've been absent from Barney's lately, right? Becca says you are always running off with some man in a suit. Is that why you never come home either? You are missing—"

I realize now where all of this comes from: I haven't been home lately. The shop has been run just fine without my being there 24/7 like before, but it seems my attendance record at home has caused problems. I wish I could explain to her that I am leaving right now for _their_ good, not just mine. But I can't, and instead I live with the guilt of my family's disappointment.

"Mum," I said, cutting her off before she could go on. "Mum, I'm sorry, but I have to go. I am almost to the destination and there's-um-orientation. I will call you soon, okay? I'm sorry I won't be there today, but I promise I can explain more later."

She doesn't answer, but my dad comes back on and tells me he loves me. Then hangs up.

I shut my phone off, not wanting to field anymore emotionally draining calls from my family, especially my sister who would no doubt try to tell me that mum and dad were only worried.

"They're angry," speaks Mycroft, suddenly.

"Really?" I drawl. "And how did you deduce that? Was it my dad's yelling, or my mother's criticism towards my apparent selfishness? I don't like lying to them, Mycroft. I'm not trying to hurt them, just protect them, but they can't understand that."

"Sacrifice is painful for everyone involved, but prize is worth the pain."

"That's quite optimistic of you," I muttered. "But I'm still upset. It's your fault that this is happening. I shouldn't have had to leave today, and I shouldn't have to lie to my family."

We rounded a bend in the car, having made it far enough outside of the city so there was farmland straddling both sides of the road.

He only shrugs his shoulders slightly. "You can blame me for whatever you want, I don't care. If you are safe, then my conscience is clear."

Instinctively, my head turned towards my window and away from him, trying to hide the blush creeping up my neck.

\---

_Friday, February 15th_

I cannot ever live with Mycroft Holmes.

After arriving at the house - which is basically a miniature mansion sitting on a cliffside overlooking the coast line in the area of Beachy Head, completely isolated from any neighbors - I spent the day unpacking and acclimating Mister and Missus to their new surroundings. I realized there were few clothes and products I had actually brought, but looking around the room, I found my size of shoes, trousers, and tops hanging in the closet and drawers. Even the knickers were the fit I liked. Additionally, the bathroom was catered with my hygiene products, right down the shampoo and conditioner I had switched to the week before. No wonder he didn't give me time to pack - the whole home was stocked with belongings that someone had been ordered to go out and buy. The gesture filled my heart.

Like any other night we spent together in London, Mycroft and I shared a meal and laughs, though I still held a grudge towards him for dragging me here against my will. But, the large windows that overlooked the water was almost enough to dissipate any harsh feelings, and I decided to treat this time as a vacation.

We watched "Clue," the 1985 American version, and I made Mycroft promise not to ruin the ending for me - this was easy to do considering there were three endings, none of which I guessed correctly. He had looked pleasantly surprised when I pulled the movie out of a small crevice on a shelf, and it surprised me that he enjoyed any sort of post-1950s film. We enjoyed ourselves, and I vowed to find more films that Mycroft Holmes enjoyed. Occasionally I would peer over at him to find his face void of any bitterness, and filled with awe and joy.

When it was time to sleep, it occurred to me that this was the first time we slept under the same roof instead of one of us leaving out of the door, only to return again the next day. Knowing he was in the same square footage as me brought a deep sleep to my soul, but that same peace was disrupted when I came to consciousness that morning and we had our first interaction.

Having not the ability to sleep in like I was a teenager, it was no surprise when I awoke at the hour of 7:00am. My body operated on a strict clock of efficiency, so even though I tried to lay in bed longer and enjoy the cushy covers, my legs became restless and my head ached for the familiarity of coffee. I eased myself from the bed and threw a plush robe on over my knickers and shirt. Normally, robes were out of my wheelhouse, but being in a large house on the beachside awoke a vacation state-of-mind inside of me.

When I exited the room—having splashed water onto my face and ruffled my decaying waves—all was dark in the hallway. I retraced my way through the walkway and over the squishy carpet, noted that Mycroft's door was still closed, and entered the kitchen. Crevices of lights peeked through the blinds covering the large windows that looked out over the brisk rocky edge and into the water. Once I poured a cup of coffee with cream, I let it cool while I walked over and yanked the strings to pull the blinds up.

And then there was light.

"Close those! What _are_ you doing?"

I spun around quickly, completely surprised by the voice coming from the corner of the living room. In my entering of the kitchen, which adjoined the large living room, I failed to notice the rigid form marking an armchair next to a small lit lamp.

Mycroft strode over to me, already dressed in a suit. I had managed to open up three of the eight large floor-to-ceiling windows, but he pulled the line from my hand before I could raise the fourth.

"I like it dark in the morning," he commanded, trying to step past me to pull at the other shades. There he was, acting all Edward Cullen-ey again.

"Well I don't," I spat, crossing my arms and stepping in his way. He tried to reach around me, but I grabbed his arm and prevented him from going any further. In response, he tried sticking his other arm out, but I latched onto that one, too. We must have resembled a pretzel, our arms twisted as he had them reaching behind me. I glared at him, upset that he was interrupting the flow of my morning. I wanted nothing more than to sit and watch the waves break on the sea while sipping coffee from a mug.

"I prefer to spend my mornings reading," he said, snaking his arms out of my grip and straightening out his suit.

"Read next to the windows, then. There is plenty of light," I replied, pulling the edges of my robe tighter together.

His lips pursed. "I prefer the lamp light. It's more of a warm glow and easier on the eyes."

I rolled my eyes. "Well _I_ prefer to drink my coffee while I look out the window. It's easier on my mood, which I think would do you well to take into consideration right now."

He narrowed his eyes back at me, but before he could insert more of his big-headed opinion, I piped up again. "How about we compromise? Half of the windows get opened, half stay closed?"

"No," he spoke, the word sliding easily off his tongue. "This is my home, therefore you follow my rules. You are only a guest. The windows do not open until they say I do." He moved around my still and shocked body, letting the shades fall down again before moving back to his position in the armchair. Biting my tongue, I swallowed the defeat and took my coffee to my room, opting to open the shades and stare out at the foliage and surrounding land.

Mycroft: 1, Noreen: 0.

\---

Later that day, having spent most of our time avoiding each other, I heard a yelp from down the hall. I had been immersed in the world of Heathcliff and Catherine, and I begrudgingly pulled myself away from the pages to check on the matter at hand.

As I rounded the corner to the hall, I saw a hand drop Mister out of a door. Mycroft spotted me and stepped out from his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Mister ambled over to me, rubbing his fur against my leg.

"What's wrong?" I asked, scooping up Mister into my arms.

"That little devil attacked me in my room," grumbled Mycroft. "I don't know how he got in, but he needs to stay out."

I couldn't help but chuckle. "He's a cat, Mycroft. He just wants to play."

"Jumping out from the tub and biting at my ankles while I use the loo is hardly _play_. More like harassment."

"Precious little Mister wouldn't do that, would he?" I cooed, scratching behind Mister's ears.

A door slammed, and I realized Mycroft had gone back into his room. Choosing not to engage further, I turned to carry Mister back out to the living room with me. Before I could make it down the hall, I heard another yell, followed by a string of curse words.

The door to Mycroft's room opened and he dropped Missus into the hallway. He poked his head out only to say: "Teach your animals some manners. I don't appreciate cat hair in my sock drawer."

He slammed the door, but I knew he saw the smirk that came over my features.

Noreen and the cats: 1, Mycroft: 1.

\---

The final two straws of my tolerance broke before and after dinner.

Because I spent the day prior cooped up in the house, today I was ready to brace the wind and walk along the cliffs to watch the waves coax gently on the shore. I laced up my trainers and zipped up my windbreaker. Though the rain was on a break for the time-being, the small trees and bushes were blowing wildly.

A sliding glass door was off of the small nook dining room beside the kitchen, and I walked to unlock it so I could go down the stairs of the deck and walk the trail below the house.

"Where are you going?" asked a voice behind me. I stopped my hand on the door and turned around to face Mycroft. It was 4:00pm in the afternoon, yet I had not seen him since the cats' attack in his room.

"On a walk," I replied, crossing my arms so I could prepare to defend myself.

He stuck his tongue in cheek and watched me carefully. "Let me grab my coat." Before I could argue, he shut me up with more words. "The situation with Carver is not under control. While we believe he does not know you reside here, I would rather not take any chances to find you dead along the cliffside. It would really put a damper on my staying here in the future. As a ghost, I know you would choose to haunt me mercilessly."

I hated that he could use this fear of Carver against me, but it worked. So, Mycroft accompanied me on my walk. We were silent mostly, and he stayed a few feet behind me at all times. This was good considering I wanted nothing to do with him.

The wonderful cliffside took my breath away at every turn. There was sparse sand and rocks located below that I wished to crawl on, and Mycroft informed me there was some trail a half mile away to get down there. Deciding to save that expedition for another day, I turned around and led us back home.

Back inside, after dinner, that's when the second straw broke.

It was no surprise that Mycroft had a string of workers living in a small cottage on the property, right next to our house. Ahem, _his_ house. The workers consisted of a maid, a cook, and other unknown personnel that wandered in and out of the house at various times, always ignoring me and whispering to Mycroft. I was sure there were people more I never saw, stationed for miles around our location with snipers trained on passing cars and civilians in case they were Carver.

Of course, there's a possibility none of this could be true. I rarely saw the maid and cook, but I noticed their presence when it came. After I made my bed in the morning, the sheets were a little tighter, the bathroom a tad cleaner, and dinner now waited for us on the stove as we entered back into the home.

It was a delicious soup, one that filled my cold belly with hot delight. I prided myself on being able to cook a fantastic meal, but this was beyond my skill level. Mycroft and I ate quietly, still not making too much conversation. My assumption was that he was just as annoyed with me as I was with him, our proximity having been too close over the last 24 hours. We were used to spending much time together, but never had our morning and daily routines crossed as much as they had in the past day. Clearly, we were opposites that did _not_ attract.

After dinner, which Mycroft ate very little of, he placed his half empty bowl in the sink and stalked to the living room to claim his throne and glass of whiskey. Once I was done, I, too, waltzed to the sink to wash my used dishes, but the sight of his still creamy bowl sent lines of annoyance into my head.

"You really cannot manage to clean up after yourself?" I hollered over my shoulder, getting to scrubbing on his spoon.

"That's what I have hired people for, Noreen," he replied. I glanced back and just about combusted at the sight of him with his legs crossed and nose stuck up while reading a book. I wanted to read too, but look who was stuck doing all the dirty work.

"You are the laziest person since whoever created drive-thru restaurants," I muttered.

"What was that, dear?" called Mycroft, an arrogant look sprinkled on his lips. I removed my hands from the soapy water and stomped over to him. He watched me approach with interest, then blatantly ignored me and went back to reading his book. Eventually, he broached me with cold eyes once more. "What are you looking at?" he asked.

"A lazy prick," I commented. His obvious amusement pissed me off even more. "You have people cook and clean for you. You can't even wash your own dish! What kind of man are you? Not one at all, if you ask me. Not even a person. It is a soup bowl, Mycroft, not a freaking flying saucer. The least you could do is try not to be such an insufferable snob."

"Is that all?" he spat, now glaring at me from the chair.

I narrowed my eyes at him, wishing up some sort of words that might twist him in the gut some. Was I being unfair? Maybe. But really, I did not have time to care. All I knew is that he had been bothering me since dawn's early light and I'd be damned to sit by and watch him push other people around like he had been pushing me. Planning to take me away without my permission was crossing the line _too far._ I knew Mycroft Holmes had no boundaries when it came to me, Noreen Jacobs, but he could at least try and pretend to be a normal person and consider my feelings towards being swept away at a moment's notice.

It's sad it took him not doing his dishes to make these words pour out of me, but as I think them, my rapidly rising and falling chest evens out, and I am able to look at him without seeing red.

"Yes," I hiss. "I would keep going, but you haven't hired anyone yet to do your listening for you, and I know you can't do that on your own. No use wasting my breath."

Still huffing, I finished the dishes and spent the rest of the night in my room.

I considered this one a win - Noreen and the cats: 2, Mycroft: 2.

I fell asleep pondering what tomorrow's tiebreaker would be.

\---

_Saturday, February 16th_

Vacation is only fun when you have plans.

This day had dragged on as the wind and rain hurled around outside the window. I stepped outside on the deck briefly and returned inside looking as if I had just showered in my trousers and jumper. Though I loved to spend my time reading, my eyes were hurting from the small print of my book copy, and I didn't feel like watching any of the other films on the shelf, at least not alone.

Mycroft spent most of the day in his room, or outside of the house on "business". He still was forbidding me to step out on any trails without him, but maybe it was my fault for obeying and this boredom was punishment. In all sincerity, he looked very serious when he said I should not go anywhere alone. From snippets and comments, it seemed that people were working around the clock to find Carver, but he was not anywhere near where he was expected to be. This was both good and bad: perhaps he wouldn't come looking for me, or he somehow knew I was already gone.

After dinner - no, Mycroft would still not wash his dishes - I busied myself with an old puzzle I found in a cupboard in a spare bedroom. The image was of people riding horseback along the coast, a man and a woman. It was labeled as 1000 pieces, and I was approximately 30 pieces in. At this rate, I did not have much hope that I would be back in London anytime soon and that I had plenty of time to finish the puzzle. Mycroft would rather barricade all the roads than let me out of his watchful sight.

While I sat at the table working on the puzzle, Mycroft was sitting in his armchair with an amber drink in one hand and a book in the other. At first I had waited to see if he would join me at the puzzle - not hoping he would, but just curious - yet now I was so engrossed in connecting pieces that it took awhile for me to feel the pair of eyes watching my every move.

When I finally looked up, only to rest my stare on something other than the sand under the horses feet, it was shocking to see Mycroft's gaze on me. His arms lay on the armrests on either side of him, but his right hand gripped a crystal glass with nonchalant grace. It had been at least two hours since I sat down. How long had he been observing me for?

"You're missing a piece," he finally spoke, words slightly slurring together.

"What?" I asked, more to myself than him. It shocked me to think that Mycroft might own a puzzle without all of the pieces. That went against his personal philosophy of control.

"A piece is missing from the puzzle, that's why you can't find the horse's hoof," he answered, lifting a hand to motion to me. He was far away from the table, so it seemed impossible that he might know what piece I was missing, but maybe my searching antics were more obvious than I thought.

My fingers ran over the pieces left on the table, searching for the billionth time for the hoof he now said was missing. "How long ago did you lose it? The entire puzzle is ruined now," I grumbled, triple checking every piece I could find.

"Why do you think it was stuffed in the back of a closet? I despise even looking at it, yet my hand cannot move to throw it away."

His comment causes an amused snort to escape from my nose. It was time for a break from the scattered pieces, so I stood and ambled into the sitting room where he was, tutting out my reply as I went. "We all have guilty pleasures. Unlike most people, yours is an incomplete puzzle. If I was a shrink, I might attribute your attachment as not towards the object itself, but clinging to the hope you might find the piece one day and finish the puzzle."

Mycroft raised his brows, swirling the drink lazily in his glass. "You're suddenly an expert deducer now?"

"Well you've kept me locked in this house for a few days and I'm starting to go stir-crazy. I feel like a princess being held against my will." I sprawled out on the couch, careful not to disturb Missus on one of the nearby cushions.

Mycroft's lips cocked into a smirk. "And what does that make me? The prince saving you, or the dragon keeping you hostage?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. The clock above his head said it was 10:00pm, yet Mycroft had not removed his suit jacket. The man hates to be comfortable.

"Neither," I answered, hopping up from the couch I just sat down on. I got a sudden urge to sleep. "You are the person who has locked me away in the first place. Some kind of evil king who wants to ruin my life."

"You know," he replied, standing from his chair as well and swaying, "those _bad_ characters usually have a good reason for what they do."

"Yes, it's called hatred," I snapped back.

He moved side to side like a rocking boat. "I can promise I do not hate you. Quite the opposite."

"Mycroft Holmes, are you drunk?" I asked. The wobbly legs and swaying body became more noticeable, and his eyes moved around in a sea of haziness.

"I'm afraid so," he replied, pointing at his empty glass and the almost emptied bottle placed on the end table.

He continued to sway front to back and side to side, and I stepped closer to grab his arm and steady him. I didn't think it was possible for him to be pissed, especially since he was always so composed no matter what we drank. But he had been sitting in his chair for quite some time, nursing his drink for hours after our dinner.

"Let's get you to bed. Your head will no doubt be pounding in the morning.. Maybe you should try to sleep past 4:00am—" I took a step forward with his arm, but he slipped out of my grip.

"Please, don't embarrass me further by treating me as if I am completely incapacitated," he slurred. "I can make it to my room just fine."

I pulled my arms away and held them up in surrender to let him walk past me without assistance, but he didn't move.

He was stuck in one place, giving me _that_ look. The one where his eyes melt into pools of grey as they swaddle me in attentiveness. His cold aura went slack as his jaw loosened and his wrinkles relaxed into the gentle sways of his face. He closed the distance between us quickly and gently, stealing away my breath as his mouth fell over mine.

His hands didn't touch me, but after getting over the initial shock of the gesture, I allowed mine to rest on his shoulders. And yes, the kiss was long enough for me to think about all of this, but only slightly. His lips were warm and potent from his drink. He was tender with me, moving softly and slowly and without rush. When he pulled away, I was too shaken to ask for more.

"I must confess, I have been wanting to do that since our New Year's," he whispered. "It appears I am much more brave when under the influence. Now, I feel the need to explain my drunken behavior tonight." His eyes trained on me, weaving me together and holding me steady. "I am under immense stress from work, Noreen. More so, I am under immense stress ensuring your safety. I only want you to be kept out of harm's way, and I will do whatever it takes, even if it means keeping you cooped up in this house while you assail me with complaints and insults while I try to protect you." The edges of his lips curved up, and then he is gone, swaying past me and into the hall towards his room. When his door shut, I snapped out of the daze he had put me in.

I was wrong, Mycroft is not just the evil king keeping me locked up here, he is playing all of the parts: evil king, protective dragon, and swooning prince.

\---

_Sunday, February 17th_

Spoiler: we don't talk about the kiss. Not once. From the time I wake up and ease into the kitchen, there is no mention.

However, the windows are open for me when I pad out to the kitchen. And throughout the day, Mycroft pets the cats and plays with them. He is suspiciously kind. And he even offers to let me walk the trail alone in the afternoon.

So I go, walking free and alone until I reach the steep path down to jagged rocks and sand. It is truly heaven on earth, and all my senses tingle with happiness as I listen to the waves, smell the salt, and get whisked away by the wind.

I stay for a long time, until it is dark, then make my way back up the path and to the house. When I walk up the stairs of the deck and enter in through the glass door by the dining room, I am shocked by the sight in the kitchen. Mycroft stands at the sink, suit jacket off, hands immersed in soapy water.

"You're becoming domesticated," I state while slipping my boots off upon entry.

He doesn't look at me, only holds the plate up to his face and inspects the surface for any left over spots. Maybe this is why he doesn't do dishes - it would take too long.

"Your dinner is in the fridge," he informed me, zeroing in on a smudge on the plate as he goes at it with the sponge.

I checked my watch, noting it was almost 7:00pm. It's been dark outside for sometime, yet Mycroft hasn't said a word about it. After shedding my coat and extra layers, I bound past him to the fridge, pulling out a mixture of shrimp, vegetables, and pasta. I took a seat at the table and began to eat the little bit I decided to heat up. My mind drifted back to our kiss.

I glanced over my shoulder and saw him drying his hands on one of his towels, his forearms peeking out of his sleeves that were rolled up slightly to prevent getting wet. Before he could notice my lingering looks, I shifted back in my seat, trying to think about anything else besides the kiss, and how it made butterflies pool in my stomach, and how my heart began to beat rapidly. But the more I tried to dismiss it, the more it burned in my brain.

Fine, I would just have to admit it. I wanted to kiss him again.

I took a deep breath, trying to ease the hitch in my throat. When I was mad at him, it was easy to shut off the attraction. But today, he had been so pleasant, so considerate and kind. Not that he was a fluffy teddy bear or anything - earlier today he informed me that I read slower than a turtle and that it would be twenty years before I finished _Wuthering Heights._ Nothing like a great boost to my intelligence.

After a few minutes of shoveling the meal into my mouth and retracing his behavior throughout the day, I was interrupted by Mycroft approaching me at the table. "Mind if I join you?" he asked. I nodded and he took the seat next to me, rather than across from me.

I decided to question his suspiciously lenient behavior, having expected him to sit down and start questioning me. "You're surprisingly calm for me having been outside so late, and while it's dark."

"I trust you know how to care for yourself," he replied nonchalantly, _too_ nonchalantly. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and read the screen. Something clicked in my mind.

"I wasn't really alone on my walk, was I?" I asked, connecting the dots in my head. "Someone was following me." It's not a question, but a statement. Why else would Mycroft let me out of his sight?

He looks up from his phone, nodding to confirm my suspicions. "Everyone is given guardian angel, Noreen. You just so happen to have ten."

I push my finished meal away from me and stare at him. "Thank you," I say, and he looks up from his phone at me. I tell him about my walk down to the beach and he listens with intensity. Instinctively, I am scooting closer to him as I start sharing different stories of my family at the beach. Eventually we move through other topics, talking to each other like our lives depend on it.

See, this is what our vacation should have been like all along.

We go silent at one point, though we continue drinking each other in with longing gazes. Being in close proximity, disclosing ourselves through words and laughs, it feels like we are back on track, on the road to somewhere high in clouds, just us two.

His mouth is frozen in a sturdy line, but his eyes are prompting. What is he thinking about? I like to play this game when we are in positions like this. The kiss from last night lingers and tugs at the back of my mind. His, too, probably. We breathe silently, each of us watching the other, so close. Close enough to...

_Do it._

_Kiss him._

Without thinking anything besides those two words, I lean in and knock our knees together as I scramble to lock faces with him. This time, I am hungrier in my movements. Our lips collide quicker, a different type of kiss than what we have shared before.

It is long, and sweet, and desperate.

When we break away, I am not ashamed of what I do next. He won't initiate, he wants me to, so I do. My actions are second nature, instinctual, needed.

I grasped his wrist and pulled him up and out of the chair, forcing him to follow behind me as I led the way to his closed bedroom door. His warm hand was slack in mine, and his legs made no move to stop me. From this, I deduced one thing: he trusted me. I could not imagine Mycroft allowing anyone to grab him and pull him in a direction he was not already heading himself, besides maybe his mummy, when he was of a young age and acting stubborn.

Entering the domain that he slept and dressed in had been a curiosity of mine for sometime, though my fantasies of invading were usually entertained in his in-between home, the only of his abodes I frequented until now.

I entered and paused just inside the doorway, observing the dark wooden dresser, closet door, bedside table, and bed frame. Everything was a crisp color of aged tree bark - slightly gray, yet retaining a woodsy tinge. The overhead lights weren't on, but one corner of the room was barely lit up by the glow of a lamp, casting shadows over everything. His comforter was as fluffy as mine, but instead of white, it was a creamy beige that called to swallow me up. Many pillows were at the head of the bed, laying underneath a large photo on the wall of a London cityscape in black and white. Even far away, Mycroft could not leave his home behind.

I was slightly aware of the door to the bedroom shutting behind me and his warm breath drawing across my neck. A single finger brushed my hair across my left shoulder while his lips rested inches above my right. The heat of his breath was torturous, especially as he withheld it inches from my skin. Leaning back, I fell against his firm chest and was enveloped by his spicy scent I had so missed.

I arched my head so I could look up at him, but he didn't meet my lips as I wanted. Instead, he asked a question, or at least tried to.

"Did you and my brother ever—"

"No," I interrupted, already knowing where this was going. "Our connection was purely mental and emotional." I turned my body to face Mycroft. His dark eyes blinked slowly as he jutted out his lips in thought; his hesitation was evident.

No offense, Sherlock, but you were the last thing I wanted Mycroft or I to think about while standing there in his room, inches from his bed. Yet, you were between us in this moment, and you would always inhabit that space of our relationship. I don't resent you for this, not at all, only myself. My feelings for your brother are something accidental, yet they are perhaps the best accident I have ever experienced.

"I've been talking to him, to Sherlock," I said, interrupting the gazing between Mycroft and I's eyes. I was referring to my meetings at your grave, but Mycroft's face turned to horror as if I had confessed I'd seen a ghost. I shook my head. "Not like that, I'm not crazy. I mean I've visited his grave, multiple times. He—erm, Mycroft, I think Sherlock would want me to be happy."

Mycroft's eyes moved back and forth between my own, absentmindedly chewing on his bottom lip. The silence was deafening and far too long. His eyes were a completely new palette of colors, swirling like melted lava and hot like fresh coals.

Finally, he spoke with a low voice. "Yes, I suppose he would want you to be happy. And... would this," he grasped onto my still-clothed waist, "make you happy, Noreen?"

I could not help the smile that rose to the surface of my face. "God, yes," I sighed, pushing myself up on my toes to kiss him.

My clothes were off in a matter of seconds—his doing, not my own. He reached to remove my undergarments, but I stopped him and busied myself with unbuttoning his waistcoat. When I tossed it aside, he groaned.

"Wrinkles can be ironed out," I teased, whispering in his ear while he kissed over my neck. I started on his dress shirt, working painfully slow as he grasped at any bare skin he could get his hands on. All that nonsense I said before about him not touching me? Yeah, that didn't apply here. He was making up for lost time, running his fingers along my spine and through the ends of my hair, letting his lips trace around my collarbones.

When his dress shirt was removed, it only left his white tee. I thought back to the time in my kitchen when he showed me his scar, and how I had been so curious about what lay underneath. All the freckles and hair and parts of Mycroft I had yet to explore, yet to see, yet to touch.

I pulled at the hem of his tee, but he stopped my hands and guided me to the bed, never letting our mouths or bodies part. He momentarily reached to switch off the lamp, but I stopped him.

"I want to be able to see," I said. He screwed up his eyebrows in disbelief. "I want to see everything." And to prove it, I slipped off his tee before he could protest.

My first order of business was to the scar that still grazed his right shoulder. It was completely healed, yet the straight line cut noticeably through his skin. I brought the line to my lips, knowing full well he observed every of my movements, and planted a single peck on it.

"I know it's overdue, but thank you," I whispered, dragging his stunned face back down to my level.

We continued like this for some time, moving slowly and cautiously. The reality of what was happening sat on our minds, and we acted as if this was the last time we might ever hold ourselves against one another, no separation of clothes or conversations. Though we moved leisurely, not wanting to rush, every act was done with artful precision that filled me from the tips of my toes to the end of my waves.

When the prefacing became too much, he pulled me to him. We wasted no more time and fit ourselves together.

So that's where the missing piece of the puzzle was, the hoof of the horse that completed it all - between us.

Then it was only our rapid breathing and damp skin filling the room. I had rolled off of Mycroft, though one of my legs still draped over him and an elbow poked into his belly. Our silence was mutual, as I'm sure we both lay there repeating the events in our mind. I blushed, having recalled the way I sang his name and tugged at the hair on his head. Similarly, his own face had been an illustration of euphoric experience.

I popped my head up, thinking I should commend him for his well done performance, and ask for a towel. He looked at me, too, lips parted as if he was deciding on words for something that needed none.

Before I could utter a single syllable, a loud ringing sound from somewhere on the ground. Mycroft scrambled out of bed, grabbing for his trousers that lay in disarray by the bathroom door. He slipped his pants back on, then grabbed for the phone in the pocket.

Immediately he answered, listening and talking with speed and precision. Had I been on the other end of the phone, I wouldn't think I was talking to a man who just had a romp in the sheets.

After a few minutes, I decided it was best if I left. The phone call sounded serious, and Mycroft's tone and direction were taking on that of a dictator, demanding for information, yet giving no inclination to what he was talking about, at least not to me. It was probably Carver.

He noticed me gathering my clothes, and he walked into his closet and returned swiftly with a robe, offering it to me. Instead of putting my damp bottoms back on, I took the robe with gratitude as I tied it around me. Mycroft watched me carefully, his mouth in a straight line as he listened to the person speaking. I picked up my pile of clothes and nodded to him with a sheepish smile before scampering out of his room and down the hall to mine.

When I was out of sight and in my own room, I leapt onto my bed and lay there, soaking in the scent of Mycroft that enveloped my skin, both from the robe and our rendezvous.

We had sex.

No, correction: we had _good_ sex. _Great_ sex.

Again, the scenes replayed in my head as I peed and hopped into the shower. Really, it was good that his phone rang. What was I going to say? What was he going to say? Not that it was a mistake, surely. A mistake does not happen that deliberately, with so much precision and intention behind every move.

When I finished showering, I crept out into the hall wearing my own robe. I put my ear against Mycroft's door and heard a muffled voice, figuring he was still nagging whatever poor employee had called him.

I set a kettle on the stove with some water and retrieved a mug from the cupboard. I moved painstakingly slow, both hopeful and fearful that Mycroft would exit his bedroom at any moment and we would be faced with the conversation we needed to have:

Now what? Where do Mycroft and Noreen go from here? _Back into the bedroom again, I hope._ No, Noreen, don't get ahead of yourself. For all I know, he had a terrible time and would rather kiss a fish than kiss me.

Okay, even I knew that was a lie.

I waited a moment longer in the kitchen, listening for any sound to indicate he was off the phone and ready to approach me. I even set out an extra mug and some Earl Grey. But he didn't come, and eventually my eyes were too tired to carry on and my tea got cold.

Maybe it was better that the conversation waited until tomorrow.

\---

_Monday, February 18th_

And here we are, back to me sitting in bed and groaning at my full bladder. Mister and Missus are snuggled together and taking up half the bed, so being careful not to disturb them, I slip from the sheets and relieve myself.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I run a comb through my tangled waves and inspect the slight bags coloring purple under my eyes. In the bedroom, I slip into trousers and a large jumper, though I don't know why I attempt to hide more of my body when he has seen - and kissed - everything.

I pet the cats good morning and brace myself for the walk down the hallway and into the kitchen, where I am sure Mycroft will be waiting. When I find him standing at the counter, looking at his phone, and sipping from a hot cuppa, my mouth goes dry and my mind blank.

My head screams _abort mission!_ but my body propels me towards the coffee machine, already filled with my bitter addiction. I make careful effort not to brush against him as I pass, though from the back he looks delectable in his navy suit.

"Morning," I mumble, busying myself with grabbing the cream from the fridge.

"Noreen," Mycroft says, and I turn around expecting him to explode into some sort of Ted Talk on why that should never happen again. Instead, I realize he was only greeting me by name in response to my "morning". My shoulders relax, and I let out a breath I was holding in. Perhaps we can act as if this never happened and just move on. We are good at that. I go back to pouring coffee.

"We need to speak about last night."

And there it is. I screw the cap back on the cream and put it in the fridge, then take my mug and face Mycroft. He has moved around the island so he now stands in front of me, closer to me. Visions of his pale and freckled chest slip past my eyes.

He clears his throat. "You should know I don't do that very often," he says, eyeing me with a hardened look. So he has come to this conversation with his defenses up.

"I find that hard to believe," I chuckle, allowing myself to gush a bit. Why act like I didn't enjoy what happened? Why act like I'm not completely taken by this man? I was adamant to hide any feelings I might have had for him, trying to hang onto a shred of dignity, but as he looked at me now, it all went down the drain.

"Noreen," he scolds softly, blinking longingly down at me. "While our encounter was something I thoroughly enjoyed, it is not a good idea for us to continue."

My face drops, my shoulders drop, and my heart drops, all at the same time.

Nonetheless, he goes on. "If our relationship was more.. _transactional_ then it might be okay to continue. But this is dangerous, for us."

"Mycroft," I pout, working the kinks of what he is saying out in my head. "If you're afraid this will hurt our friendship, it won't. I know you care for me, and I care for you. This.. _thing_ between us won't ruin that."

Even as I spoke, he was already shaking his head. "No. We cannot do this anymore. It will end badly, Noreen."

Frowning, I take in his face. While he looks serious, I see the pain looming behind his eyes. He doesn't want to say this, but he feels he has to. I want to lighten the load, show him it's okay to do this and to care this much.

"Is someone becoming too attached," I tease, pulling playfully at his tie.

"Yes," he responds, grabbing my wrist. His hand is red hot on mine. "You are, to me."

I let my arm drop from his grip and down to my side. "Mycroft, you won't hurt me."

"I know how you feel about me, Noreen," he chastises. "It will only prove to be horrible if we go on. I do not want to give you any reason to think we can ever be together, formally. We do not belong together."

His harsh words knock the wind from my stomach, but I fight to continue on. I am losing him. "Okay, I promise not to think like that. We won't ever be together, I understand. But please, don't take yourself away from me." It kills me to speak these words, because inside, I _know_ we belong together. And right now, I must lie, I must keep him close so he doesn't slip out of my grip.

He watches me closely, going back and forth between my two eyes as his interior freezes. Before he is completely gone, slipping back into his stony persona, I catch a glimpse of the man who laid gentle hands on me last night, almost as if he is waving goodbye.

"Carver has been caught," Mycroft says suddenly. "Pack your things. We can go home." He turns to walk towards his room.

My feet are glued to the floor, my mind glued to his words. Though he is gone from the room, I shake my head. No, we _do_ belong together. We _will_ be together. I have spent the last eight months tripping over this man - yelling at him, kissing him, ignoring him. Whereas before I might take this situation and stuff it deep down, or let it fuel my vengeful anger, I'll be damned if I let it do anything but motivate me to show Mycroft Holmes that I am right: we can be together. It's only dangerous if we are separate.

Mycroft has carved his own story, trying to play the character that is too hard to love, too far gone for anybody to bring back. In that case, I will be the character who moves mountains to stop the dramatics of his cold exterior.

I, Noreen Jacobs, will let London sink before Mycroft Holmes gets away from me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now you know why it took me so long to get this to you.. I gifted a whole novel in this chapter! But believe me, it was quite the hoot to write.
> 
> Currently, Myreen's weather forecast is scorching hot sun!!!!!!!!!! But be careful—rain can always come, and when it rains, it pours... ;)
> 
> I have a wonderful poem I came across in a book that I want to share with you all:
> 
> And because I love this life  
> I know I shall love death as well.  
> The child cries out when  
> From the right breast the mother  
> Takes it away, in the very next moment  
> To find in the left one  
> Its consolation
> 
> \- Rabindranath Tagore, from Gitanjali
> 
> If you have a poem that comes to mind, please share it with me!
> 
> Welp, that's it for now. Thank you all for waiting your patient little hearts out to read this chapter. It's always a joy!
> 
> Cheers!


	16. One Year, Four Months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lowkey warning: lowkey drug use :-)

_Sixteen Months After_

"Mrs. Hudson, you really didn't have to get me anything, especially this _... again._ "

Here I am, standing in Mrs. Hudson's flat, holding up another bag of sweet, sweet marijuana, courtesy of the woman's personal stash. Not only that, but she's slipped a small, glassy, blue hand pipe into my grasp, quite the upgrade from last year's rolling sheets.

Mrs. Hudson cooed at my look of surprise, grasping her hands. "You said you enjoyed last year's haul, so I thought why not gift it again? If you need someone to smoke it with, you can always phone me, dear."

At the time, when she had inquired after the weed I did _not_ actually smoke, I thought the lie had been harmless. Seven grams was a lot to waste, and I didn't want her to think the gesture wasn't appreciated, but truthfully, it had been stuffed into a drawer in my home and left my mind quickly. It appeared she had given me more this year. I might have to actually smoke it.

I smile brightly at her, resting my hand on her arm. "This is wonderful, really. And I might take you up on the offer of accompanying me."

"Do me a favor, Noreen," she says, patting me on the back as she leads me to the door, "and have some tonight, before your party. Helps with the socializing."

"I will take that advice, for sure," I reply, and this time I mean it. I peck her on the cheek as she opens the door to the blinding outside. Today, the sun has drawn back the curtains of clouds to make an appearance, something my severely Vitamin D deficient skin is thankful for.

"Happy birthday, again," she calls after me as I make my way down the steps. I offer one more wave before she disappears behind the black door with rusty brass lettering.

Breakfast with Mrs. Hudson would be the new birthday tradition. Who decided this? Me. Because it's my birthday, and I can do whatever I want today. And one day, I will walk up those stairs and roam through _your_ home, but not today, because that is something I still cannot do, no matter how much the curiosity tugs at my head.

\---

The tube ride to Moorgate is pleasant enough, though I am happy to find the sun is still out when I emerge from underground and start my walk home. The time is already past 11, which means I am late. The rabbit from Alice in Wonderland bounces around in my mind, urging my steps to go faster. _Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!_

My mobile buzzes, and there is that ill-fated text:

_Your birthday is not an excuse to be—_

I don't finish reading it. There are many potential endings to this message:

— _rude._

_—selfish._

_—late._

All of them end in some adjective typed from the mind of Mycroft, and all of them are words he has used in association with my behavior before. I am sure he will repeat himself upon my arrival, spewing jargon about his time being precious enough not to be wasted. I will be quick to remind him he is the one who offered to spend a Sunday afternoon with me, though after offering he still muttered something about having errands to run in St. Katharine's. I thought after last month's shag we would be over using excuses to be in each other's presence, but he seemed to rely on them more, always running into me on my walk home from work, or calling me late at night to share a drink after he had finished some "business" nearby.

Mycroft had been loud and clear: _we do not belong together._ And while I heard what he said—again, loud and clear, like a sword piercing my heart—I did not believe him. So, I let him dawdle in this fiction story he has crafted about being too difficult to care for, too cold, too used to being alone, and—my personal favorite—that he could hurt me. Since the beach trip, I have watched him stare longingly at me from across the room—when he thinks I'm not looking—while I reach high and low on shelves to grab a book, accentuating the pieces of me I know he enjoys. I take pleasure in his hesitancy to allow contact between our hands or legs when looking over papers at his desk, always careful to move or pull away before I come closer. How he lingers longer beside me, painfully close, so we can inhale the scent of each other's soap, detergent, and most recent meal. His ability to mask humor when I tease, anger when I poke, or joy when I inquire, is all more evidence of how hard it must be to lie to himself every day. He wants to react to me, but mostly, he just wants me.

I am hoping this desire only increases to the point where he admits defeat, accepting that we fit like a plant in a pot: one holding the other, the other adding beauty to the one.

Like clockwork, when I ascend the stairs of my building and scramble in my bag filled with weed, looking for my keys, the voice of a devil—I mean, angel—fills my ears.

"Did Mrs. Hudson handcuff you to her table and force you to listen to her mundane stories that have no relevance to the 21st century?" Mycroft is standing, leaning on his umbrella. Why he only equips himself with it on days where no rain is forecasted is beyond me.

"No, actually, I handcuffed her leg to the floor so her hands were free enough to cook me breakfast. Would that be considered leg-cuffing?" After unlocking the door, I swing it open and motion for him to walk in before me. He watches me with protruding lips. "In a good mood today, are we?" I tease, noting his sour scowl.

He nods his head forward, and taking his cue, I step into my flat first. I set my purse on the counter, but as Mrs. Hudson's gift sticks out from beneath the tangle of receipts and loose change, I zip it up quickly before prying eyes can notice.

A chorus of meows cascade toward me. Mister and Missus rush out from opposite sides of the flat, immediately moving to rub their bodies against my legs and remove all outdoor smells so that I am theirs again.

"They're like children, always in need of attention," mutters Mycroft as he steps over Missus trying to flit between his feet. When he has made sufficient progress in untangling himself from her tail and now stands near my couch, he faces me.

"New suit?" I notice the dark tweed melts like iron bark, and his tie stands out in tones of mauve, maroon, gold, and an almost black forest green.

His mouth cocks up to the side in appreciation of my notice. A hand absentmindedly touches over where it tucks into his waistcoat. "For the occasion," he answers. The exclamation of _Happy Birthday!_ embarrasses him. To utter words so thrown around by the common population and to convey excitement while doing so, well, his cheeks are sure to ripen like fruit.

"Thank you," I smile, accepting his silent salutation.

He exhales a breath he's been holding as if to say _No, thank you._

I stride past him and to the couch, making sure my hair flows by his nostrils. He will note the twinge of grapefruit from my face wash. I hope he has to restrain from reaching out and grabbing at me.

When I plop down on the couch, he follows and sits elegantly in my armchair, legs crossed and revealing his argyle socks in hues of blue. A silly pattern for a serious man.

"Even though spending time with you has made me into a, shall we say, antisocial knob—" I earn a glare for my vocabulary, a sure sign I am on the right track "—I have found it in me to be excited for tonight."

Mycroft nods slowly, encouraging me on.

"Really, it was all Molly's idea. An open party? Brilliant. It starts at 6:00pm with me getting picked up by Braekis and Silva. You remember them, right? From my football team? I can't wait for the season to start again. Well, the team, they're picking me up, and then Wagner, Romero, Sawyer, and some others will meet us at the club. I believe the club is Reflex, some 80s themed place. Most of these women have kids, so they'll leave early, at 8:00pm or so. Then Ellis and Parker take their turn, though Ellis is trying to keep Parker on a strict schedule and not have her out too late. I told them it's okay if they don't come, but Parker insisted. Ellis is taking good care of her, and maybe this time they'll actually stay together, forever."

I pause, checking to see if he wants to respond at all to anything I ramble about. He taps his fingers against the armrest, eyes focused on me.

"So, they'll probably leave around.. 10:00pm? That's when Greg and Molly step in and finish out the night. They both have to work tomorrow, as does everyone else, but they insist on celebrating. I was thinking you might join at the time, too? Or earlier? I didn't bother inviting John, I already know his answer. But what time do you think you'll arrive tonight?"

His finger tapping stops as his lips twitch. He doesn't answer, and his impassive gaze tells me nothing.

"You will be coming, right?" The fact I even have to ask begins the boiling of my blood and the perspiration under my arms. I informed him of this event a few days ago, assuming he would be there.

His eyebrows raise. "Mingling at a greasy establishment is hardly my ideal Sunday night."

"You literally don't do anything on Sunday nights, or any other night, unless it's with me," I correct, resisting the urge to throw the pillow I death grip at his face.

He turns to furrowing, disagreeing with my prior statement. "There are important parties I attend."

"Yes, ones that I never get invited to," I grumble. I have long awaited an extended invitation to attend a regal cocktail gathering filled with stiffs and plasticized people. "Besides this is not any Sunday night, it's my birthday. You even bought a new suit."

Scoffing, he adjusts his lanky legs so the right now crosses over the left.

"Mycroft," I scold, my voice beginning to raise to a dangerous soprano.

"I don't do parties, Noreen. Especially ones filled with legwarmers and—"

"You are so selfish," I remark, standing to tower over him in the chair. "You live to disappoint me, don't you?"

He sighs. He sighs so damn calmly. As if I'm being irrational. As if I'm being frustrating.

He rises, our chests minimal distance apart. "This is what I meant by you are too attached to me. I made it very clear, Noreen. Our relationship is nothing more than _friends_."

"Yes, exactly why I am inviting you to my birthday party. And as a close friend, I request your attendance. My other friends will be there, too."

"Which is why my presence is not necessary," he replies, too quickly.

"Why can't you just do what I ask? I always follow your dictatorship."

He scowls. "You can't expect me to do these things. I am not your... _partner."_

"You're really thick, aren't you?" I ask, narrowing all of my disappointment at him so as to hide my shame. "I know you're not my _boyfriend_." The term itself almost sends him rocketing out of the ceiling and to the moon. His shoulders do that thing where a string from the heavens straightens him out like sharpened #2 pencil, his face turning as pink as an eraser. I'm sure my own is reaching a color unseen by eyes. "You made it pretty clear after shagging me. By the way, life tip for you, don't sleep with people you have no intention of pursuing further."

A chuckle escapes his throat, not even trying to hide it. "Noreen, you have a fascinating ability to get your own hopes up and then blame others, usually me, when the situation does not work out. I made myself clear: we are not together, and we will not be together. It may not be apparent to you why I am saying this to you, but I assure you that an explanation will show itself."

I resist throwing my hands into my hair in exacerbation. Mycroft's declination is physically aggravating to all parts of me. "God, you're such a masochist. Why can't you just admit—"

"I have nothing to admit to you other than I will be absent at your celebration. That is final." The straight lines of his lips tell me these are his last words on the matter. Our irises play a game of tag as they dart between one another.

"Get out," I manage between clenched teeth.

"But your gift—" His face falls, shoulders slumping slightly. It has no effect on me.

"Your gift to me is leaving me alone." My feet stay glued to the floor and I focus on a small painting hanging on the wall next to the bathroom as he slithers away, recoiling back into his shell. When the door to my flat closes, I break from staring at the watercolor blends of waves on sand and blink away the gathering dampness at my eyes.

It's my birthday and I'll throw someone out of my flat if I want to.

\---

"So it's that kind of party, aye?" Braekis glances over her shoulder at me as I climb in the car, a lipsticked grin on her face. I hoped my hair products and the piece of gum I stuck in my mouth might hide the stench, but evidently not. "I hope you brought enough to share."

I nod, and then to prove it, I fumble with the zipper of my purse and reveal the stash, along with the mini pipe. Silva takes a look and lets out a long whistle, obviously impressed. "Told the family I'd be home by late, but it might be a little later now."

I laugh heartily and buckle my seatbelt, leaning my head back to rest. The sun has not completely set and there's a haziness to the world, though it's faint. Braekis tells me we're adding a few new women to our team this year, and that Grant threw out her hip so we would have to make up for lost defense in the midfield. I dream for the days when the skies remain blue and there's only the grass, the team, the ball, and myself.

Our arrival to Reflex seems delayed, as if the car moved a tad slower in the stream of Sunday laziness. I see the sign indicating our arrival, but it goes past the window without stopping. "Braekis—" I start, but she cuts me off.

"Pit stop," she mutters, and I know what she means after we pull into a small parking lot next to a tiny park. We hurry to blaze, watching the windows fog with our breath. When it's finished, we make a loop around the block with the windows down, though Braekis is sure to have a lingering odor for a few days.

The second time we pass by the Reflex sign, Braekis slides into an open parking spot. Her, Silva, and I are in a happy medium, and the year-old perfume we find in the car and spray over us are sure to mask our activities until we get a drink. Inside, the rest of the crew awaits. There are shrieks and rough pats on the back as we all reunite once more.

The next two hours are history.

\---

By the time Ellis and Parker roll around, I'm only on my second drink. This doesn't sound like much, but Wagner bought me dinner as a solid foundation with which to build my drunken tower on for the rest of the night. The crowd thins, and I'm happy to see Braekis and Parker talking. I don't know how often they see each other—they seem to be chatting up a storm while Ellis stands by loyally idle—but I am eternally grateful to Parker for sending me towards the football team.

Ellis drops from her side and putters towards me, enveloping me in a hug so tight that I can feel the bones of his shoulder. "Another year older. 31? Really?" he asks, scanning over me. I wonder if he still sees the dorky fourteen year old who used to carry around a backpack filled with books I checked out from the library. It's hard to right now, I'm assuming, with my glistening nose stud, party pants, and my face beginning to droop with age. Even my waves had lost a bit of _oomph_ when I woke up this morning.

"Happy birthday, Noreen," he says, hugging me again.

"Thank you, Ellis. A drink? Please? Just one."

He nods, then searches around for Parker.

"She'll catch up to us," I promise. "She's in good hands." I lead us to the bar, ordering a beer for him and a beer for me. When we have our drinks, I pop a question to him that has been brewing in my mind. "Ellis," I say, weaving between bodies, "do you think it's possible for me to start another business?"

If he is surprised by what I ask, he doesn't show it. Ellis is not a businessman, per say, but he has the charm and smarts of a cunning salesman who knows the ins and outs of the commerce world. "What are you thinking, Nore?"

"Well," I start, spreading my hands on the table and preparing to give the miniature presentation I have been constructing in my head all week, "many months ago my brother-in-law approached me about potentially starting a new business. He wasn't looking to work with me, thank god, but he did mention that if Barney's continues rolling out steady profits then it might be feasible to start down another avenue."

"Like a Barney's 2.0?" asks Ellis, swigging his drink.

I mirror him with my own pint before continuing. "No, I'm thinking more..." I let my mind graze back to the project for Mycroft, all of the paperwork and meetings with professional gardeners and landscapers. The adrenaline—perhaps the drugs and alcohol, too—pump through my system as I finally gain the courage to speak the next words. "Like a-a professional-garden-design-business. Sort of a complement to Barney's, you know? Picture this: people come into Barney's for their flower arranging needs for weddings, parties, or just the average symbol of love. But then there's—" I pause, "—well I don't have a name for it yet. But then there's this professional garden and landscaping business—gardscaping? land-ardening?—that tends to your backyard dreams."

Ellis' smile says it all. "Nore, that's a wicked cool idea. My suggestion is to look into spaces near Barney's so the two offices aren't too separate. Allows for easier flexibility and reach. Does your family know about this?"

"No, not at all," I confess. "It's just an idea, nothing tangible yet. See, I'm currently working on a garden for one of my—" another pause, "—for a friend of a friend. I think I'm doing good work. When it's done, then I'll decide if Barney's 2.0 is a go."

"I look forward to it," he grins, and his grin grows wider as Parker finally joins us at the table.

"Happy birthday to the queen herself," she says, nuzzling into me. She takes my jaw in her hand, moving my face from side to side as she inspects me. "I'm glad you kept the stud, you sexy thing." She winks at me and wiggles next to Ellis before he leaves to go to find her a drink.

And again, the next two hours are history.

\---

"Noreen Jeanette, you've had this the whole time? And you didn't tell us?"

We're standing outside the doors to the bathroom, the three of us. I made the mistake of asking Parker to dip into my purse to retrieve an emergency bandaid for a scrape on her arm—she had been flailing limbs on the dance floor and scratched her hand against a post—and she came across _the stash._

"Well what are we still doing here? Let's go hit the damn thing," she yells, ignoring Ellis' outstretched hands holding the bandaid.

"But Parker," I say, then lose my voice. It's not that I didn't tell her on purpose, but her state of having just left rehab was enough for me to keep it out of conversation. Granted, her admission had been due to hard drugs given to her by her drug lord ex-boyfriend, but we had not discussed more of what occurred and instead swept it under the rug in typical Parker-Noreen fashion. Much like we did with you, Sherlock.

Parker cocks her head and grasps my elbow. "It's medical," she teases.

Ellis and I have no choice but to follow her fading form out into the cool night. I lead them to the same park I had smoked at with Silva and Braekis, but this time we take cover under the shade of leaves. There are few cars parked near us, all empty, so we allow ourselves to only be shaded slightly by tree cover.

As we pass around the pipe, memories of younger days float up like the smoke. I recall sneaking around London, thinking that at any moment a cop would—

"Noreen?"

The breath I inhale gets caught in my throat, sending me into a coughing fit. When I recover from my doubled over stance, I rise and see none other than Greg Lestrade watching me with a smug smile.

"You are so lucky I'm off duty," he says, shaking his head and rocking with soft laughter.

"Detective Inspector," I greet, still clearing the scratchiness of my throat. "You're early." I check my watch, only to find that he is actually late, as am I. The clock face reads _10:15_ and panic floods me as I think of Molly wandering helplessly through Reflex.

Ignoring me, Greg steps towards Ellis and Parker. "Greg Lestrade," he says, offering his hand to shake. Under the bare light of a streetlamp, his silver hair glows. He is exhaustingly handsome, and a sting of annoyance pokes at me as I wonder why I couldn't have simply been interested in _him_ after your death, instead of he-who-must-not-be-named. And no, not Voldemort. I'm referring to the other dark lord that has haunted the back of my mind all day.

"I believe it's my turn to babysit her some." Greg's continued joke eases the tension in Ellis and Parker's shoulders, and I realize that they realize that they are speaking to the Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard. No wonder Ellis has attempted to hide the pipe behind his back.

"It's all good, he's my friend," I explain to them. They nod, relaxing.

We hug goodbye and Ellis slides the pipe back into my hand. "For later," he winks, then pecks me on the cheek. I wave after them, watching as they walk hand-in-hand towards, well, I don't know where. Their ride home awaits somewhere amidst these bustling streets. Perhaps no one else has to work tomorrow, like me.

When I turn, Greg is watching me with an amused expression. "Enjoying yourself?" he asks, walking slowly to let me catch up as we head towards Reflex.

"You only turn 31 once," I remark. "Where's Molly? I feel terrible that I left—"

Greg interrupts me, calming my worst fears. "Already told her that I found you. She has a table inside, one that she's pretty sure you were already at considering your jacket was slung over a stool."

Whereas under different circumstances my face might redden in embarrassment, I only shrug. Being under the influence has its perks, like not experiencing feelings of shame.

"It's lucky I had to park so far away," Greg continues, "we might have sent out a missing person's report if you never showed."

I pat him on the shoulder in appreciation. "I would expect helicopters. You know how I like being in a spotlight."

We laugh together and enter the establishment. Molly is easy to spot because she's the only person standing alone. I follow where her eyes look towards the dance floor, and there's a man and woman doing some sort of complicated step dance. Maybe I'll have to try that later.

"Molly Hooper," I yell as we near the table. She jumps slightly, but looks happy when she realizes it's us.

"Happy birthday, Noreen!" She looks cute in her jumper and red lips.

I hop around the table to her, throwing an arm over her back. "So sorry to have kept you waiting. I was—"

"Greg told me," she smirks in reply.

Before I can scold the DI, he pops a question that melts away my nagging. "Drinks, ladies?"

We both nod, and when he returns, we clink our glasses together as I holler: "Let the real party begin!"

And for the third time that night, the next two hours are history.

\---

"Are you sure you don't want to ride together?" Molly asks, watching me with skepticism.

I am pissed, I know I am, but the fresh air sounds much more comforting than the whirly twirly inside of a car. Though Greg made sure I was continually drinking on a full stomach, it was the leftover tinge of the weed that was now making my tummy roll in tight knots. A few minutes walking outside and I might be fine, as long as I keep drinking the water Molly purchased for me before we left.

"I'm good, I promise," and really, I am.

"Your flat is like a half an hour walk from here, Noreen." Molly persists with a worried look. I am honored by her dedication to ensure I make it home safe, but I would like it to be just me and the pavement and the memories of a wonderful night.

"Molly, thank you, but I promise I will make it home. I can call a cab if I get too tired."

She nods in defeat, then wishes me one more happy birthday before she sets down the way towards her waiting transportation. Turning east, I focus on evening my steps out as the world wobbles in my vision. I check my watch, noting that it's half past midnight. Happy Monday, world. While many of you venture to your jobs tomorrow morning, I will be sound asleep and nursing a banging hangover that is sure to find me and take no mercy.

The air is cool against the small parts of me that are bare—my ankles, hand, and face. Occasionally I pass a shady bloke, or an arguing couple, or conspiring youths, but most of the streets are barren lands.

As I take a left onto Coleman St., the familiar buzzing in my jacket pocket slices through my peaceful stroll. I give it the benefit of the doubt, thinking that _just maybe_ it's not Mycroft. But alas, it is. It's always him. Shaking my head, I silence the call and put the phone back into my pocket. Seconds later, he's at it again, the buzzing jiggling my pocket like an annoying insect. And like before, I silence it. Stealing a glance up at the CCTV cameras posted on poles, I am only infuriated more. He has been waiting for this all night, for me to leave the bar and be alone in the streets. For him to be alone with me. Well, if the man can't handle sharing me with others, then he will not have me alone.

When the buzzing comes again, I am blazing to click the green button and answer. "Why do you do this?"

For a second, there is just a crackle, breathing. Finally, he speaks. "Good evening, Noreen."

If he was standing before me, I might have slapped him. The coolness of his tone sends pinpricks sailing into my body, a sobering effect on the alcohol.

Because I choose not to respond, or maybe I forget to, he continues. "I would like to offer you a ride home. A woman in your state should avoid walking the streets of London at night, alone." Each syllable is pronounced with precise articulation, so formalized that it seems he was birthed by a dictionary.

"No," I reply flatly.

He scoffs quietly, a muffled _hmph_ in the phone. "I insist."

"And I resist."

"You misunderstand, I _greatly_ insist." The deepness of his voice takes on an edge.

I throw my hands in the air, astounded at his stamina. "And by this you mean your car is enroute to me already, right? Damnit, Mycroft. Why can't you take no for an answer? You tell me to stop being attached to you, and then you bloody stalk me through the night like some predator. And now you're insisting I get into the car with you, as if you actually care about my safety—"

"Noreen," he interrupts, and I can picture the iciness levitating on his breath. "You are nearing dangerous territory. I suggest you quit your reactionary insults and comply with what I ask."

"You really are obsessive, you know that right? Completely and utterly obsess—wait, no, _possessive._ You are a possessive little monster. And you like saying my name, don't you? You find any excuse to utter it—"

"Stop yourself before you enter one of your tirades against me. You will wake all of London with your demonish screeching."

I don't know where the urge comes from, nor why I think this in any way shames him or affirms me, but Mycroft Holmes causes me to enter into actions I normally would not. Dropping my bag, I rip the jacket off of me and pull up my shirt in sloppy fashion, pointing my chest towards the nearest cameras that glare down on me. "Is this what you want, huh?" After a few seconds, when I think I've shown enough, I pull my shirt down, replace my jacket, and hold the phone up to my ear in a breathless manner. "How do you like that?" I huff, grabbing my bag as I continue walking the streets.

Satisfied, he says, "I'm not the only one watching you on the cameras tonight, Noreen. But please, feel free to keep doing that to every camera you see. I'm sure some of our men and women would enjoy it. Might help them make it through their shift."

"You're an arse," I say, and it's becoming difficult to hide my sheepish smile. I may be drunk, but there are still few people that I want to see my breasts, though I wouldn't be surprised if Mycroft had placed hidden cameras in my bathroom or bedroom. The man has no rules of privacy except for ones that protect him.

Surprisingly, the flashing has calmed my anger. Amidst our arguing, I had forgotten my ailments of nausea. Now I am tired and my limbs are beginning to feel like jello. Mycroft hasn't spoken, probably having witnessed the sudden change in my demeanor. I am no longer an energetic drunk, but lethargic in my movements and thoughts.

"Mycroft."

He hums in response, urging me on.

"What do you want?" I speak gently, leaning into the phone.

His answer is simple. "To give you your gift. You kicked me out of your flat before I could."

Oh.

"Right..." I glance around the street. "Well, where are you?"

"Two minutes away. Stay right where you are."

When the sedan pulls up to the curb it is all too familiar how my grip rests on the handle, pulling it open to the leather interior and finding the tall man seated fancifully. He has not changed from the suit he wore earlier. His hair, which was flat and neat, has begun sticking up in the frenziness of daily activity. Whatever argument we just had is tucked away while I bask in this backseat that has become my own. Norman begins driving, presumably to my flat.

"Your clothes reek," Mycroft comments, glaring disapprovingly. "It's a good thing I picked you up. Wasn't Detective Inspector Lestrade there? Did he encourage this behavior?" I had almost forgotten about the excursions out to park, all of that seemed ages ago. Moments with Mycroft often felt like days.

"So," I say, ignoring his criticisms and stretching my arms and back against the soft padding, "where is this gift you have promised me?"

Without looking my way, he reaches to pocket inside his suit jacket, pulling out a small rectangular box. My first thought is jewelry. This thought sends my body into a panic. Why jewelry? Have we reverted to traditional gifts for man and woman? He sets the box on the middle seat between us, probably to avoid physical contact. I grab for it, looking between his face and the box as I begin to open it.

Seeds. But not just any seeds, _sunflower_ seeds.

He looks at me. "You have neglected placing any in the garden. Spring is arriving, and now is the best time to plant them."

I shake my head. "They clash with the current design I have." I run a finger over a few of the seeds, trying to rework them into the equation of the garden. "I can't fit them, Mycroft."

He sighs, disappointed.

"But," I say, willing to promise anything that wipes that hopeless look off his face, "perhaps we could plant them in your front yard, along the inside of the fence."

"I prefer them in the garden," he grunts, pursing his lips.

"Is this _my_ birthday present, or _yours_? I will do with them what I want."

He merely raises his eyebrows, breaking his body from facing mine head on. A terrible idea comes to my mind, one that I scream at myself not to follow, but it's so _so_ terrible that I can't resist, a temptation I must give into.

"You know, I have an idea for another birthday gift you could give me." Unbuckling, I slide to the middle seat so our bodies are next to one another. No amount of shock glows on his face, but I feel the spasms of the muscles in his legs as he tries to push himself against the car door and away from me. "Kiss me," I say, smiling up at him.

Seeing his cheeks blush and him getting all flustered is almost a gift enough. He is embarrassed, and it brings a vibration of pleasure to my stomach. "No. This is highly inappropriate. We are friends, but now you have me reconsidering even that."

I try to catch his eye, but he avoids me. "We kissed as friends. What's the difference now?" The car has pulled to a halt outside my building, but neither of us make a move to leave. "Kiss me," I say again.

"No."

"Please," I beg, placing a hand on his arm.

"No."

"You've already ruined my day once, Mycroft."

He wiggles uncomfortably under my grip. "If the roles were reversed and I was begging you for a kiss, it would be considered _harassment._ "

Smirking, I reply, "If you were begging me for a kiss, we would actually be kissing right now." Since my persuasion seems to have no effect—I am too deep into this mess to stop now, I must get the kiss—I push the button to roll down the barrier between us and the front seat. I am desperate.

"Norman," I call. He perks up. "Don't you think Mycroft should kiss me? It is my birthday after all."

"Norman, don't answer that," spits Mycroft. "Noreen, you are acting like a child. We have arrived at your home. I will walk you up to your flat and that will be it."

"No. If there will not be a kiss on my doorstep after you walk me up there, then you don't get to accompany me at all." Now is the time I try to make my escape, but there is a clicking and the door on my side won't open. "What the hell?" I yell, trying the handle over and over again. "Are you mad?" I ask, turning to Mycroft.

He laughs. "You always like to make a dramatic exit. I wanted to experiment what might happen when that gets interrupted."

"You're a psycho," I say, though the laughter in my voice tells otherwise. I continually try to open the door, suddenly feeling claustrophobic in the mania of the last few minutes. "Sherlock open—I mean, Mycroft, open the door."

I turn to him. He is all flaring nostrils and glares. There is smoke exiting his ears.

"You know, I'm surprised that doesn't happen more often," I whisper, hoping this mix up just blows over. You are a touchy subject to him, and I imagine mentioning your name and reminding him of your eternal absence might hurt more than me confusing you two with one another.

There is a click and suddenly the door opens. I almost fall out, but manage to catch myself on the seat. I clamber outside, but turn around to ask one more thing I cannot shake from my head.

"Why do you say we're not together? You always come and get me, even when I'm acting like a 'child', as you say. You search the streets and pick me up, like you can't stay away. Explain that to me, please." I don't mean for my voice to waver, but it does.

His head dips down to look at me standing on the pavement. His eyes hold onto me like the scope of a rifle. "A man and woman can't just be friends?"

Every fiber in me screams _but we are not just a man and a woman._ My insides bleed with turmoil as I debate my answer. These mixed signals from him are painful, and they strip me of any stability I may have in what we are. I am so angry with him, so _so_ angry. And yet, I long to be with him in any capacity, even as just a friend. It's so clear to me: Noreen + Mycroft = happily ever after. There are no other variables that matter, but he acts as if there are.

Swallowing all of this back, I enter survival mode again. "Sure, we can. We're friends. Goodnight, Mycroft."

I close the door on his voice muttering my name.

\---

_The next day_

I have three possible reasons why Mycroft thinks we can't be together:

1\. There's another woman.  
2\. He thinks he's being self-sacrificial by not letting me care for him, as if he'll hurt me.  
3\. He really doesn't like me, like is not attracted to me in _any_ capacity.

Those are the only three logical reasons. I am pretty sure number 3 is _impossible_ , and number 1 seems unlikely, and number 2 is just plain ridiculous. But we shall see.

It's Monday, and thankfully my hangover has been minimal. I believe my close encounter with the cold kind last night just about knocked out any ill feelings that don't stem from his aversion to me. My hands are working to make space next to my dining room table for another bookcase. After leaving last night, Mycroft informed me that Norman had constructed a bookshelf as a gift to me, something we had discussed months ago. Norman would be dropping it off in a few minutes, and I presumed he would be coming alone.

A soft knock comes from the door and I maneuver to answer it. It's Norman, looking tidy in a jumper with a collar sticking out from the neck. "We'll be quick, Noreen," he says.

At first I don't know what he's talking about, but then I see two men—in business suits, no less—parading a graying pine bookshelf up the stairs and towards my flat. I direct them to the spot I have cleared, and they drop it and move it into the space. I assume they are some of Mycroft's workers because they enter and leave without saying a word.

"Thank you, Norman. I really didn't think you would make a bookshelf, and with spots for the cats to nap in, wow. This gift is wonderful, really. I owe you the world," I say, hoping my words speak to the genuineness of my feelings.

"You owe me nothing. Your own presence has been a gift in the last year." He chuckles to himself, as if he knows a secret.

"Why do you say that?" I can't help but be nosy.

"Well," he lowers his voice and looks around to see if the other men have left. They are long gone. "Mr. Holmes has been in a much better mood since you've started coming around."

"We're not together, Norman," I reply, gripping tightly onto the ends of my sleeves.

He raises his eyebrows and smiles, offering a small shrug. "Well there's no other woman he busses around London for. Enjoy your bookcase now." He winks at me and leaves through the door, shutting it gently behind him.

I am watching the spot where he just stood, his words having more of an effect on me than I might expect. A furry tail tickles my calf, and I look down to find Mister watching me with curiosity. I hear a bump and see that Missus is chasing a small fuzz around by the counters of the kitchen.

"Did you hear that Mister and Missus? There's no other woman he busses around London for. There is no. Other. Woman."

That leaves only two options.

\---

When my phone rings, interrupting me mid-nap, I assume it's Barney's. "Hello?" There is drool dripping from the corners of my mouth. I was dreaming about _you_ performing in a carnival with a tiger.

"Noreen?"

Immediately I perk up. It's my sister. She is not one to cry, which is why when the fullness of her voice hits my ears, all my senses go on alert.

"Charlotte? What's wrong?"

"I'm s-sorry." She is hiccuping between gasps, trying not to break into sobs. "I didn't want to call you because—" _sniffle_ "—it was your birthday yesterday. But, but mum and dad are making me call you and..."

"What is it? It's okay, Char. Just tell me." It must be Ava, or Freddie. But they all looked fine yesterday when we Facetimed. Except Charlotte wasn't there, and neither was Isaac. Did Isaac get in an accident?

"It's Isaac," she croaks. I expect the worst: he's died. But then she says something worse than that. "He's gone, Noreen. He was cheating on me again, he's, well, he's been doing it. Since Freddie was born. I don't know why. I thought we would just work through it again, like last time, but he was so obvious about it, not trying to hide it any sort of way. And then he just left, and—" The crack in her voice sends a chill to my core. "And now he's moving in with her, so I left the house, and-and now I have to get a divorce and—"

"Charlotte," I breathe. "Charlotte, I'm so sorry." I want to envelope my little sister in the tightest hug possible; these fruitless words are all I can offer. The cries she sends through the phone pelt at my ear drum, and then they're replaced with my mother's voice.

"Noreen," she sighs. The tiredness is evident. "Your sister needs a break for a minute."

I nod, then remember she can't see me. "When did all of this happen?" I ask.

"We found out about it two months ago, and—"

"Two months?" I yell.

"Yes," mum responds. She sounds like an iceberg. "Two. Months."

"Why did no one tell me?"

She huffs. "You were too busy. Running off here and there with god knows who. Your sister felt like you had no time for her. This has been a battle for her every single day. And where have you been? Taking a trip, not bothering to stop here on the weekends anymore—"

The phone goes to static before my mum's voice is replaced by my sister's. "Don't let mum make you feel bad," Charlotte says, sniffling once. Her voice has evened out. "I should have just told you anyway. It was a lot at the time, and part of me didn't want to believe it, you know? Not again, not after having Freddie."

"Char, don't apologize. It's my fault. I never came home, or called, or asked. I should have and I'm.. sorry." I take her silence as forgiveness, something we did as young girls. "I want to come see you now, but I have work all week... Can I come this weekend?"

"Don't ask me, it's not my house," she chuckles, but then in a more serious tone: "Please come. Living here with mum and dad makes me feel like I'm twelve years old again. And Ava and Freddie miss you. His favorite thing to do now is blow kisses."

"I'll head up on Friday, okay?" I can almost smell the milkiness of Freddie's skin and the sweet fruit scent of Ava's shampoo.

"Okay," my sister says, yapping away to my parents to inform them of my impending arrival.

"Char, before I go... If there's anything you need this week, _please_ tell me. At any time, any day, I promise. I will pick up the phone and take the next train to you."

"Okay," she whispers again, and this time her voice sounds caught in her throat.

We hang up and I sink back onto the couch where I once lay my head peacefully, resting in the knowledge of my sister and her infinite happiness. And now it's gone— _been_ gone—all thanks to my prick of a brother-in-law Isaac. I knew we shouldn't have trusted him, not after the first time. Once a cheater, always a cheater. This call with Charlotte has sent me back to early days with her in tears, crying over his cheating or him spending all their money away. Good riddance. Good fucking riddance.

Blinking, I stare up at the ceiling. The guilt is stuck inside of me. _I should have been there for her. I should have asked. I should have gone home._

My mobile is proving to be a hot commodity today because there goes my phone, buzzing away. Assuming it's my mum, who enjoys finishing the nagging she often starts with me, I answer quickly.

"Hello?"

"Presuming you'll be over on Friday to work on the garden, there's a bottle of pinot noir from Cháteau de Pommard, gifted to me from a member of the royal family, sitting in my cupboard. Care to join me?"

I pick at a developing hole in the blanket I have thrown over my lap and regret not checking caller-ID. "I won't be there this Friday, or at all this week."

Disbelief breathes from his tone. "You have meetings to discuss details of the planter's shed and greenhouse. You have to be here."

"No, I don't have to do anything."

"Not this again," he groans.

"My sister just called me to say that her husband is leaving her for some other woman, and that he's been cheating her for some time. My parents found out two months ago, but she just now called to tell me. Want to know why? Because I have been _absent,_ Mycroft. I have been absent from my family's life, and it's because of you. You're the one who takes me away, who makes me lie to them, who fills my time with projects and day trips and whatever _you_ need me to do. And all for what? Nothing. You give me nothing. I do all of this to my family and you can only reject me. Well now, I am rejecting you. I will not be over this week, and in fact, I don't know the next time I'll be over. I will continue working on this garden, but on my _own_ time, not yours."

I end the call with the touch of a finger, and turning it off is even easier. Throwing the blanket off of me, I jog to my room and slip into exercise shorts and trainers. Outside my window it looks like the sky is going to vomit with rain, but I take my chances and head out for a run.

Later, after having exhausted my body enough that a small portion of the guilt towards my sister has lessened, I power on my phone. There are no messages besides one from Becca reporting how Barney's was today. This leaves me elated—no missed calls, no text messages, nothing. Radio silence. He has received my message and he intends to listen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprised myself by how quick I got this out. I just couldn't bear to wait long for the next installment of this British soap opera! When inspiration strikes, you must take it.
> 
> I shall share with you another wonderful quote from the book I am reading:
> 
> "Not only our actions, but also our omissions, become our destiny."  
> \- "Cutting for Stone" by Abraham Verghese 
> 
> Share any favorite book quotes you have! 
> 
> And here I disappear again, back to the darkness of academic writing. Until next time, my lovely readers. You all motivate me to tap tap tap away at my keyboard. 
> 
> Cheers!


	17. One Year, Five Months

_Seventeen months after_

Ava hands me a page with scribbles on one side. There is a mixture of scratches from colored pencils, shapeless blots of violet marker, and the smell of crayon wax overwhelms my senses. I am in no way a connoisseur of art, but this creation she has concocted deserves a spot in the Louvre.

"Wonderful, my dear," I comment, tracing a looping line that might resemble a cloud.

"This page, No," she mutters, ripping the paper from my grasp and flipping it over. She has taken to saying only half of my name instead of the full thing. This can be confusing as sometimes she will yell _"No! No! No!"_ and we're not sure if she's refusing the food on her plate or if she's calling for me.

"Oh, mhmm, I see." On the other side is a long stick figure, it's head shaped like a plop of Play-doh. The eyes are dotted in blue and the mouth drawn in a squiggly line of pink. There is a twirl of dark hair on top. "Beautiful," I remark, and Ava watches me expectantly, as if I'm missing something. "Is this me?" I ask, pointing to the stick figure. I recently cut my hair again, so the resemblance is possible.

Ava shakes her head, grinning shyly at me.

At that moment, Charlotte, who was working on crafting cookie dough into small rounds, walked over to admire her daughter's creation. "Oh," she breathed when she saw the stick figure. "She's been drawing him a lot lately. We don't know why she suddenly remembers him."

_Oh._ It's you. The blue eyes and black mop suddenly make sense. I glance at Ava and she has moved onto a new piece of paper, a new drawing.

"How do you know she's drawing him?" I ask this only because it could be anybody. Why you? She was only just past a year in age when you came around. It is not possible for her to remember.

Charlotte sighs as Freddie begins to whine from his playpen in the other room where he's been napping. Before leaving to fetch him, she answers me. "We know it's him because Ava points to the drawing on the fridge that he sent to her."

From the dining room I can only see the side profile of the fridge, though I do know the dragon drawing is suspended by a small magnet on the front, just below the water dispenser. My sister leaves and I am left staring at my niece who is now etching lines in straw yellow.

"Ava," I say, picking up the portrait of you and sliding it towards her. "This is Sherlock. You remember him, right? Can you say 'Sherlock'?"

Her eyes leave her piece of art only for a second as she analyzes the stick figure. A slip of tongue sticks out of her mouth, a sign that she is focused on the work at hand. I wait patiently for her to finish drawing—my guess is she was aiming to illustrate Mister and Missus, judging by the circles with ears and legs poking out—then I ask again.

"Can you say 'Sherlock'?"

She laughs and nods her head. "Suhlahk!"

"Close enough," I remark, then kiss her head. She jumps from her chair and rushes me, tickling me with as much force as her little fingers allow. I scoop her into my arms and throw her over my shoulder, dancing around the room and into the kitchen. I stop by the fridge, stooping to the floor to let her down. She is giggling menacingly, and when I point to the familiar dragon pinned to the silver surface, she only chuckles more.

"Suhlahk!" she yells again. So my sister is right: Ava remembers you. I toss her over my shoulder and fly her around the house, the sound of her giggles filling every crevice; it's a good thing Freddie is already awake from his nap. If you were here, there is no doubt you would correct the poor girl until she got the "Sh" and "r" part down of the pronunciation.

Later, before dinner, when I am reduced to cleaning the clutter of Ava's art corner on the table, I fold up the drawing of you and stick it in my trouser's pocket. There is already a spot for it in my room, right next to the framed photo of us. It's the beginning of a small shrine for my detective. I must admire your persistence, Sherlock: even when you're dead, you manage to materialize in the strangest of ways. Today, I am glad it is through my niece. All I ask is that you _never_ surface in some sort of ghostly, bodily form. There is no doubt I will throw up all over your scarf and coat, prompting you to clean it at some spirit dry cleaners.

\---

"I don't know why she hates me, mum. I have given her nothing but respect since she started working at Barney's. And I'm the one paying her to be there—if she doesn't like me, she can leave."

"Perhaps it's this very attitude which prompted her to say these things in the first place," my mother grumbles in return.

I begin dicing at a higher speed, focusing all my anger into the precision of the knife meeting tomato. My mother had yet to forgive my monthly escapades away from the family even though I have been spending every free moment with them. Her disappointment in me—which my sister, my dad, and I all agree is uncalled for—escapes in passive aggressive conversations like so. She was unsurprised that an employee was smack talking me, and acted as if I deserved this for all my past behavior.

If only my mother knew what I had been through, if only she knew me at all. Instead, I stayed seething and silent, always making sure to never be alone with her so as to not feel icy words fall upon my ears. I had tried to do everything I could while I was home, but the one thing she wanted me to do—go back and change the past—was not possible. Thus, here I was helping to make dinner and living out my penance as she criticized my leadership skills and took the side of the girl I had declared my new enemy.

_Sophie Clarke._

When Max _temporarily_ left us a few months ago, due to school reasons, we found Sophie Clark as a _temporary_ replacement. Actually, I considered surprising the girl and keeping her on even after Max returned, thinking that might be the time I start to lay off my time at Barney's and chase dreams of Barney's 2.0. However, Max's absence has been extended longer than what was originally thought. Again, this is fine. I love the kid, and I recognize this is not (nor should it ever be) his lifelong dream to work part-time at my flower shop. But there could not have been a worse application to have stumbled over and thoroughly enjoyed more so than Sophie Clarke's _._

The girl is the devil inhabiting a small 16-year-old's body. I swear there are horns sticking out from her straight blonde hair, and the smile she gives where her dimples dig into her cheeks and her head cocks to the side, well it looks to be filled with the eternal fire ready to burn me.

It started approximately two weeks ago, though the girl had been working here for much longer, since December. I cannot help but wonder how long these thoughts have been brewing in her, working up to the surface. And then to have the audacity to speak to another employee about it? Then be a fake little snot to my face? _And_ blast me on social media? Well that was beyond me, and way aboveher pay-grade.

\---

_Two weeks earlier_

As I arrived to open up Barney's and prepare two bouquets for the birth of twins that some grandparents wanted delivered to a birthing center for their daughter, Carl came in earlier than expected. Evelyn was not working today, and after I left at 3:00pm, it would be him, Sophie, and Becca to finish up.

"Morning, Carl," I sing-songed as he stepped through the door. "What brings you in so early?"

He shuffled through the door, removing the traces of mud stuck to his shoes. There was a nasty puddle to the left of our entrance, and I would have to work on sweeping out the water before opening. Glancing at the clock, I had only 30 minutes to do so - the twins' bouquet would have to wait.

Carl removed his hat, offering a nervous grimace. "Noreen, I-well-this is odd. I've never had to do anything like this, especially here at Barney's, but... Well I feel I owe it to you since we're like family."

The worst situations jumped through my mind: he is dying, Evelyn is dying, he stole something. The last is the least likely seeing as Carl came to me one time with his check from work to inform me I had accidentally included an hour's worth of pay that he wasn't here for.

"What is it?" My heart thumped with anticipation.

"Erm, Sophie, you know Sophie?"

"Yes," I answered, trying not to let sarcasm drip into my voice. The poor man was about shaking with nervousness.

"She-erm-well, yesterday she was saying some things... Not good things..."

"About Barney's?" I pondered if there was something amiss in our training, or perhaps she just found the flower business was not for her.

"No, well, kind of. It was, erm, about you."

The sentence strikes me odd, and I fail to understand. How often I don't consider that my presence affects others, that I am noticed enough to be discussed. "Go on," I urged, having to physically steady my shaking hand. Suddenly, I'm back in primary school, the kids on the playground being mean and teasing, so-called "friends" whispering behind my back.

"She-um-you know we don't believe this, right Noreen? I don't know why the girl—"

"We?" Someone else was here when she brought me up. Was it Becca or Evelyn?

"Yes, Evelyn was here. Well, that was the first time, about two months ago. Sophie started to say something about you always being... absent, and us caring more about the store than you since, well, she thinks you only come in when you want to... But Evelyn shut her up pretty quick, saying that you are the backbone of the store and you do more than any of us, and that without you, Sophie would be without a job."

My chest loosened a bit in anxiety, thankful that Evelyn had stood up for me. If anyone is a knight in shining armor, it's her.

"But this last time, it was just Sophie and I. And she.. she started up again about you getting every Saturday off."

"As if I don't open the store every other damn day," I muttered under my breath, crossing my arms tight around my chest. Maybe if I did this my heart would slow down instead of almost breaking out from my flesh.

"Yes, exactly," agreed Carl.

"Was that all she said?" I asked, a plan already forming in my head.

"Yes. Because then I told her what you just said, that you open every day and that you're the owner. Then I left to help a customer and she didn't bring it up again."

I nodded, mulling over the idea baking inside my head. Perhaps Sophie only thought this because we worked mostly separate shifts - me in the morning, her coming in after school and on Saturdays (not every Saturday, mind you). A simple fix was to switch around my schedule and work with her, just her and I. Some real boss-to-worker bonding time.

"Thank you for telling me this, Carl. It will be taken care of _promptly."_

And I really believed it had been. Three days later, I made sure it was only her and I there to close the store.

"So," I said, once the last customer of the hour had left Barney's happily carrying a bouquet of assorted yellows. "Sorry we haven't had time to get to know each other, just you and I." Perhaps if I put it all out in the open then she would feel both ashamed and grateful, erasing any harsh feelings against me.

Sophie turned to me, a smile printed on her lips. "It's no problem. I understand you're busy." Before I could respond with even a breath of relief, she spoke again. My limbs tightened, preparing myself for the worst of words. "It's really cool that you own your own business. I admire that, especially as a young woman. You're someone I can look up to."

"I—" Well, I was speechless. I had never been inspirational to anyone. And quite literally, Sophie did look up to me. She was shorter than me by about six inches, just a small little kid in comparison. Suddenly, she wasn't so scary. "Thank you," I whispered, then cleared my throat so I didn't sound like I was entering puberty. "If you have any questions for me, or maybe you want to job shadow the more business side of things... You are more than welcome to, anytime."

Sophie received my offer with a smile. "Really? I would love that."

"Okay," I nodded, awkwardness overtaking my skin. I had experience being an older sister to Charlotte, but our age difference sometimes felt minimal compared to the teenager who stood before me. Without knowing what to do next, I did what I do best: grabbed some flowers and passed on my best knowledge of arranging.

I was proud of myself for taking care of the Sophie situation as I did. By the end of the shift we had discussed many things and she was nothing short of kind and talkative. But then, of course, because I do not inhabit a fairytale story, my sister called me up the next week.

"What? I'm in the middle of making dinner," I snarled. Really, I was just waiting for my soup to boil, but I had just spent another weekend with my family and I was grasping for any air away from them.

"Sophie's tweeting about you," my sister announced, and she sounded like she was in a tunnel.

"Am I on speaker phone?"

"Yes," she replied, "but don't worry - Mum and Dad took Freddie and Ava for ice cream so it's just me. But listen, the little b-i-t-c-h is tweeting about you." Charlotte seemed to forget there were no kids around, so she could say the word instead of spelling it.

"What do you mean?" I asked. The soup emerged to slow bubbles.

"Sophie, she's tweeting about you. Do you know what Twitter is?"

"Yes, of course," I grunted. I left out the part about never having had my own account, nor even knowing how to navigate the site.

"Let me send some screenshots to you."

Now it's my turn to put Char on speakerphone. The screenshots come quickly, only three:

_lmao my boss really thinks she can teach me something about business when the lady doesnt even know how to run one???_

_i have to work every weekend while my boss screws around with some suited tosser_

_if my boss wore cute clothes she might have a chance at not being alone for the rest of her life_

As I read each of these tweets, my throat and chest began to sting with the kindling of a fire, the reawakening of coals from the first time Carl informed me of Sophie's blatant disrespect. I do not like mean people.

"Did you get them?" Charlotte's voice was muffled by the crunching of something, most likely biscuits.

"Yeah, I'll call you back." I hung up the phone before she said another syllable, then I did something Noreen Jacobs had never done before: I signed up for Twitter. My @ name was @helianthus, which I figured was vague enough considering that no one would know it was the technical name of a sunflower. And anyways, I had no other plans than to stalk the last three months of Sophie's tweets and record every time she tweeted against me.

I never called Charlotte back. Instead, like a teenager, I stayed up into the wee hours of the morning staring at my phone. Half that time was spent figuring out how Twitter even worked (why did no one capitalize words or use punctuation?). Okay, I did follow some celebrities, too (no one told me Cristiano Ronaldo was on here!). But beyond that, I spent time scrolling through Sophie's twitter profile and searching for any more inciting social writings about me. There were not many more explicit ones (she really thought my style was horrible since she kept talking about it), but there were some passive tweets about annoying people in her life, people she wished would just shut up, people who deserved worse as she deserved better. I was _sure_ these tweets were about me, and this is when I decided my social media time was over. I had screenshotted what I needed, then deleted the app from my phone and spent time rolling around in bed and remembering why I swore off all social media besides Facebook: it ruined my mind.

When I couldn't fall asleep, I spent time wondering if this was enough of a case to fire her. Yes, Sophie had spoken out horrible against me, but she didn't use my name nor the name of Barney's. Still, I tried to think up repercussions for what she had done, but none came to mind. As mucked up the recesses of my heart were from the continual embarrassment and anger of her behavior, I had no desire to fire her. In all honesty, I _needed_ her. We were short-staffed, and until I could find a replacement, her evening attendance was necessary.

Or so I thought.

I thought that until I walked into work a week later and Sophie presented herself with the perfect opportunity to be fired.

\---

"She really has the audacity, the guts, the _stupidity_ to speak badly about me in my own store?"

"What actions did you take?" Mycroft sits at his desk, legs crossed and fingers tapping against a thick stack of papers. The other arm is propped up on the armrest and his hand holds up his head. I pace back and forth in front of him, shaking and spewing with ferocity and adrenaline from the last few hours. He is a willing listener, staying quiet for the most part, but letting me vent freely and always asking questions when needed. Mycroft is neither my coworkers, nor my family (which are also, technically, my coworkers), so there is a freedom in the words I choose to explode with.

In fact, after firing Sophie today, he was the first person I called. After he reluctantly agreed to me coming over ( _"I'm a very busy man. London awaits my assistance.")_ , he informed me that a car would be there soon. And much to _my_ own reluctance, Anthea was in the back seat awaiting to blindfold me. _"So we're going to the dungeon office,"_ I thought to myself, though there was a comforting familiarity in the usual elevator ride down to the warm room filled with bookshelves and alcohol. I hadn't visited in quite some time, and I blushed to remember that our _meetings_ had become much too intimate for his office space.

Calling my parents and explaining to them why I had just fired an employee when we were already short staffed sounded exhausting, especially when my own mother was more than likely to take the side of said employee. Besides, having spent the last four weekends with my family was making me stuffed with annoyance. It wasn't just the endless train rides to and fro, but the nagging of my mother, the cramping into a small, shared bed with Charlotte, and now the lingering smell of Freddie's nappies were beginning to stain my hands and clothes.

"I fired her," I tell Mycroft, coming to a stop in front of his desk and standing with my arms crossed. Proudly, I recall the scene that occurred hours before:

Me, stopping in at Barney's unexpectedly to work on a custom bouquet requested by one of our regular customers. Me, stooped down behind the counter and reaching in to search for a fitting vase—I was arranging flowers for a customer's daughter's dance recital. Becca, standing beside me and doting around at the till while waiting for someone to enter the store. Sophie, entering the store and deciding that was the right time to trash talk me. Me, rising from behind the counter after hearing the words: _"I'm glad it's just you and me today, Becca. I had to work with Bore-een the other day and it was horrible. I don't know if you've noticed this, but she's kind of—"_

I couldn't even let her finish before I rose out from behind the counter and assaulted her with a sickly sweet smile. _"I thought our conversation went quite well,"_ I said, leveling my body against the counter. I was shaking with nausea. Sophie, too, looked to be readying herself to upchuck today's lunch. Becca, in my peripheral, twitched slightly as if she'd been slapped. We all felt a little shaken.

I left to the staff quarters in the back and no steps followed. Locking myself in the bathroom, I threw up as silently as possible. I barricaded myself back there, feigning looking over bills and inventory and what not. Eventually, after I felt I'd calmed down, I stalked out to the main part of the store, waited for a customer to leave, and fired Sophie on the spot.

Her bag was on the counter, like it had been ready to go all day. She left without a word, though the flush of her face told me enough. I hoped she was ashamed.

Mycroft's voice brings me back to the present. "Congratulations," he smiles, "you are officially a boss. Blatant insubordination does not look well on a work record."

"My thoughts exactly," I agree, finally sitting down in a chair across from him. I huff, rolling my shoulders back and forth to relieve the small amount of soreness. Football had began again, and my entire body almost buckled on the first day back. I was bent out of shape, and only now were my muscles beginning to tune themselves to the familiarity of the sport. I had also started lifting weights, small ones, to strengthen my shoulders and arms. Sitting in the comfortable armchair in this snug office almost sent me to sleep.

A buzzing from Mycroft's phone reopened my eyelids. Frowning at the screen, he juts out his lips in thought before typing furiously with one hand. The other stays placed on his desk. He pays me no attention for some time, which is fine by me. After having put large amounts of space between the two of us—physically and emotionally—I was feeling almost healed from my decrepit crush on him. Sure, there were the initial withdrawal symptoms: my thoughts never left him, I had to start writing down stuff on sticky notes that I wanted to share with him instead of texting or calling, and there was a painful knot in my chest every time I ate my dinners unaccompanied by his disapproving yet enjoyable presence. I longed to be nagged by him for careless behaviors and to return the banter with merciless teasing.

But now, I had a clear head. It took approximately two weeks for my withdrawal to mellow out to a dull vibration during various moments of the day. The tightness in my chest stopped preventing me from taking in deep breaths, and I could finally reflect on the last several months of my life with him. This is what I found:

I enjoyed the attention he gave me. The intensity with which he measured every detail of my life gave rise to a childish desire in me. My yearning to be known was matched by his obsession to know, and because of that, he played into every guilty pleasure of my egotistical self. I enjoyed being deduced by him, for him to know the size of my clothes just by looking, to decipher my thoughts before they ever traipsed my lips, to catalog the inventory of my flat, my shop, and my head.

After you, Sherlock, I was only trying to fill the void that you had deeply left. Who else better to fill it with than your own flesh and blood, the closest thing to you that I could manage? It wasn't that I replaced you—no, there's no one to replace you—but Mycroft's friendship felt like the tiniest pinch of having you back again. Did I think I was using Mycroft? Subconsciously, yes. But at some point it had stopped being for my own benefit and was only for my own detriment. See, I called him a masochist, but subjecting myself to his wounding personality was something I enjoyed just as much, if not more.

Mycroft Holmes has a bubble around him. Outside of that bubble exists the world I am used to operating in: family, flowers, friends, cats - normalcy. But when I step—no, _fall_ —into that bubble, the weather changes. My heart and head twist into a tornado and none of my thoughts fall straight. Only when he spits me out, or I hastily remove my limps from his encampment, am I able to return to my friends, my flowers, my family, my cats, myself.

We are friends, and just that. I admit, going cold turkey and straying from the man in front of me is not possible. Some piece of us is tied up in the other, and so I entreat myself to these visits. I work on his garden. I share about my life. We exchange books. But the barrier of Mycroft's bubble and my own remains untouched. Sure, there is an air of difference between us where worlds and universes have passed to create gaping spaces, but it is for our own good. Regretting any relations we once had is useless - had we not done them, our curiosity would still be paining us.

There are moments that are more trying than others, like right now, as he looks up from his phone and narrows his eyes at me. His suit is a light blue today, the color of a summer sky. "You're thinking about something," he says. He must know it concerns him, but he says nothing. This is not surprising because Mycroft has taken to guarding himself against me as I against him. After my hanging up on him last month, he neglected to contact me until I reached out first. Once I did, it was as if everything was normal. Well, if by normal I mean he was stiff, cold, and suspiciously polite. Still, he had warmed since then but I sensed an anti-Noreen security system on his head and heart. I'm sure there is a picture of me pinned inside of him with the words "UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES IS THIS WOMAN ALLOWED BACK INTO OUR ESTABLISHMENT." Again, all fine by me - my head is thinking the same thing about him.

"Actually, yes," I say, reminding myself that there was another reason for my arrival. Mycroft nods, inviting me to continue. His fingers are now laced under his chin, and his sleeve falls a bit to reveal the hairs and freckles dotting his wrist. _Focus._ "I was with Parker the other week and we started talking about Roman and Estelle." Pausing my speech, I wait for his reaction, but none comes. His eyes only continue boring into my own. "Right, well, she mentioned something about Roman and Estelle working under someone in charge. So, they weren't just operating on their own, it was someone else delegating to them. And this person let them take the fall for the crime. Parker doesn't know _who_ exactly _,_ but I thought it might be new information for you.. in case you were still looking into the case."

After presenting my knowledge, which I prided myself on for stumbling across, Mycroft nods. "Your effort in gathering this information is appreciated. However, we must take what Roman and Estelle shared with Parker with a grain of salt."

"Of course," I murmur, feeling silly for having pretended to be a detective for any amount of time. "So.." As I start to speak, his gaze drifts up to mine from the pen on his desk he has been furiously studying. "Any plans for tonight?" After all, it is Friday.

"No," he replies, swiveling around in his chair a bit. "Yourself?"

"No, nothing."

A piece of me waits for one of us to extend the invitation, but it doesn't come. We cannot cross back over to that time. Instead, we both move the edges of our lips upwards in pleasantries, neither one of our smiles truly meeting our eyes. I will be eating alone; he will be eating alone. We both know this; we say nothing. I bid him goodbye; he calls in Anthea to blindfold me. The silence weeps between us, but we hold firm as statues in our separate bubbles, intent on not letting the other pop our own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE: I wasn't going to post this quite yet because 1) it's shorter than usual, and 2) I am beyond excited to write the next one, so I thought a pair of chapters might be nice together. BUT someone on Wattpad convinced me to post it because why make y'all wait on Ms. Noreen Jacobs and her tantalizing life? The next chapter will be out soon, I PROMISE!
> 
> (☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞
> 
> And because this is a surprise chapter, I have nothing to say in my author's note because all the cool stuff is saved for next time. I shant waste time here when the next part awaits (like I am literally going to continue working on it right now.. it is 1/7th of the way done!!!)
> 
> BUT WAIT! Before you go, read this:
> 
> I appreciate you :-)
> 
> Cheers!


	18. One Year, Six Months

_Eighteen months after_

"I thought you were dead."

John Watson glares at me from behind his pint. "No, you did not."

Narrowing my eyes, I deflect him without even trying. "Don't tell me what I have or have not thought. You aren't around enough to know anything about me."

"Noreen," John hisses, bowing his head and splaying his hands on the table. I forgot how easy of a target John is, how simple it is to wind up his emotions; you did it all the time. "I am sorry, okay? How many more times must I apologize?"

I take a long sip of my drink, watching him scramble underneath my weighty stare. In a panic, he turns to the woman beside him, Mary, but she only offers a shrug of the shoulders and a knowing look. "It sounds like you deserve it," she says, then rubs him reassuringly on the back. Mary has quickly earned my approval in the five minutes we've been seated across from each other at a grimy table in this pub.

How did I stumble upon our old friend, John Watson, you may ask? More like _he_ stumbled upon _me..._

_One sunny day in this month of May, whilst I was furiously spritzing almost-wilting bouquets in a corner of the store, the bell above Barney's door gave a ring. "Welcome in," I called over my shoulder. I took a moment to wipe the sweat collecting on the edges of my face. No customer wanted to see an owner doubled over and heaving like an animal._

_When I turned, I almost doubled over again and returned to my state of being ostrich with its head in the sand. Standing before me was John Watson, greying hair and all._

_"Hi, N—"_

_"Shut up." And then I squirted him with the spray bottle I held. Thank goodness it was just water._

_"I guess I deserve that much," he muttered. The small words were coaxed between his lips and I wished you were here to nag at him to articulate more. John wiped the droplets from his eyes, wincing as he tried to regain eyesight and look up at me._

_Holding the spray bottle at the ready, finger on the trigger, I had only one question for him: "How dare you?"_

_"Noreen," he sighed, head bowing to the ground. "Hear me out, please."_

_"Why should I? Unanswered texts, cancelled plans... I'm surprised you even remember my name, let alone where I work."_

_He pressed his lips together, nose moving in agitation while his jaw clenched. "I'm sorry, okay? Please, just.." He trailed off, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. I watched him do this with you many times, a sure sign he was preventing himself from unloading a large batch of anger upon our conversation. He opened his eyes again and wetted his lips in nervous habit. "I have a girlfriend and I want you to meet her."_

_My finger pressed on the trigger, accidentally spewing drops again all over John's face. "Why did you do that?" His voice rose to that familiar tone._

_I hoped my innocent expression stood strong. "Slip of the finger. You have a girlfriend?"_

_"Yes," he grunted. I sidled over to the counter to grab a clean towel and handed it to him. He accepted it gratefully, then pulled his head away and made a face. "What is this stain on here—"_

_"Dirt. I use it to clean up spilt soil. Occasionally it's used to wipe cat piss off my floor, but don't worry, it's freshly washed."_

_He closed his eyes, breathing in and out through his nose with effort. "Will you meet her, please?"_

_For the first time in many months, I looked at John Watson, like I really looked at him. He wore a nice button up shirt under a middle-aged man style jacket. It was brown, like a rich clay, and his arms reached just past the sleeves. His fingers clasped the fabric in either nervousness or irritation, and I noticed his hands were slightly chapped from the changing seasons. Perhaps he lost weight, though I recognized in him what I saw in my own mirrored reflection: it wasn't so much a couple of pounds had left him, no, it was in his wholeness as a person. In jumping off that building, you carried a piece of John Watson with you so that his earthly mass was lighter, almost as if he floated around without you there to tether him. A string connected you two, and as you tugged from the sky for him to follow you up, he worked to stay firmly on the ground and drag you back down to him._

_John appeared put off by my silence, so I spoke."Yes, I will meet her. But my schedule is busy, I'll have to check when I'm free." I closed my eyes and pretended to search my internal database. Being without Mycroft meant being without plans, thus my evenings were free. I popped my eyes back open. "Turns out there's an opening for tomorrow night. How does that sound?"_

Okay, so that only happened yesterday. And that's how I now find myself seated across from him at a pub with Mary Morstan, a pretty blonde with, what I'm discovering to be, a killer sense of humor.

"Fine," I sigh, floating back to John asking for my forgiveness. He glances up, hopeful, though the bags under his eyes betray the amount of dejection evident in his system. "I forgive you. _But,_ " and just as his face rises in expectation, it falls once more, "you missed two of my birthdays and now we must have two parties as recompense."

He grins slightly, scratching his head in confusion and surprise. A warmth has restored his eye color to their usual homeliness. "Alright, fine by me. Just—" he glances around, sticking out his lips in the John Watson style of thought "—just don't tell anyone. I haven't been by to see Mrs. Hudson, and I've only run into Greg a few times."

I nod in understanding. Not wanting to rain on John's parade, I refrain from telling him that if he thinks I was being harsh, wait until he encounters Mrs. Hudson. He really is dead as far as that woman is concerned.

"Why come to me first?" My question sparks a chuckle from Mary, and I give her a kind grimace before focusing on John once more. He rolls his eyes, proof that whatever answer he's about to give is upsetting for him to admit.

"Mary wanted proof that I have friends," he mutters, picking at the corner of a menu in front of him.

"I'm not judging," she chuckles. "I have very little friends or family myself."

My eyebrows raise. "Well, John is a _terrible_ friend, so..."

"Yes, I'm catching onto that," she agrees, winking at him.

John shakes his head slightly, lips pressing so tight they go purple. "Can you two, please—"

"John, take the teasing," I say. "It means I like you and that I forgive you. You are a good friend, okay?"

He mumbles something indiscernible under his breath, but I ignore him. In time, he'll come around again, once he has dealt with his own guilt. I turn to Mary. Her smile is kind and gentle, and there's a mischievous twinkle that pulls me to her like a magnet. I imagine a candor halo on the crown of her head, and this same aura of truth pushes out the first words that come to my mind. "So, you're a nurse in the same clinic that John is a doctor? It's sort of like the British version of Bonnie and Clyde, but instead of killing people, you try to save them."

\---

Seeing John Watson in love is quite jarring. It's obvious, really, how he feels towards Mary. Every word she speaks draws his attention. When she moves, he follows. When she laughs, he accompanies in chorus. It appears Mary feels the same, judging by the way she talks with John as if they have been together for ages when in fact it has only been about a month.

How nice would it have been for you to be here, to join us. I imagine you might get along with Mary, only because she refrains from childish daftness and carries the strain of humor that you appreciate. I confess that after seeing John yesterday, I encountered a whirlwind of memories and they have not stopped flooding my head, heart, and all parts of my being. It was as if I entered a new level on a video game, unlocking never-before-seen footage. The images passing behind my eyes were surprisingly crisp and clear, as if they just happened yesterday.

There was the day you and I went food shopping. And let me just say, it was the _last_ time I would ever take you food shopping.

_"Money is pointless, food is pointless, and a business that runs on both of these principles is a waste of time, space, and energy. Look at all of these mindless beings balancing on two legs, pushing a cart full of food that is practically pushing them to death."_

_I sigh, surveying the shelves in front of me. "What kind of crisps does John like?" I was so used to your ramblings that it often registered as a dog whistle high above my hearing._

_You ignore my question, which is only fair because I have ignored your oral presentation on why supermarkets are nightmarish lands to venture to, hence it usually being John and Mrs. Hudson's job. I asked you to walk me home from work today since there were no cases on the horizon, and John texted me earlier to say that you were being more insufferable than usual. He also mentioned the flat could use some refreshments, to which I happily obliged since you and I had been together for 6 months now and I spent far too much time over there to not help out in some respect by buying crisps, fruit, tea, and other necessities._

_I grab a bag of Walker's and put it in our basket. "Onto the produce," I mutter, tugging at your arm as you and an old woman have a stare down in the middle of the aisle over who will move to the side first. I force us out of the way to let her pass, earning a glare from you._

_"We have to share the aisle, Sherlock," I tease, tugging at your scarf and straightening it back out. It had become disheveled from the wind outside, and from me making you reach for the taller shelves in the store. My arms could reach the product on top, but I enjoyed watching you stretch._

_You stare over my shoulder, no doubt still fixated on the woman. "I really don't think she needs to stock up on food, she's going to die any day now. She will spoil before her milk does."_

_"Sherlock!" I cover my mouth to hide a smile. You don't laugh one bit, and I realize you are being serious and not humorous. "Produce section, now," I command, pulling you after me when I see a family beginning to approach us. I don't even want to know what you would say about the children and their loud behavior, grabbing items off the shelves like wild wolves. Actually, you might say something like that, but outloud and to the mother's face. There's a theory that couples eventually morph into each other once they spend a decent amount of time together. I wonder how long it will be before I start wearing a long coat and turning up my collar. Let's be honest - there is little chance you will adopt any of my habits._

_After perusing the fruits and veggies, which you defined as overpriced and tasteless plants, I unload our basket at the checkstand. The cashier smiles kindly, a young man in his early twenties. "Find everything you need today?"_

_You speak before I can even think. "Is that a question or a statement? Do try to practice your inflection. Is it a question mark or period at the end of your sentences? How long have you worked here? See how I asked that question? Your shirt is faded, a sure sign of many months of washing, though it appears the sweaty pit stains are permanent. No manager pin, I see. Is it because you are incapable of doing anything other than scanning groceries, or do you simply not wish to achieve more in life? One of your glasses' lenses is thicker than the other. Are you a rifleman? No, a photographer? You close one eye when looking through the viewfinder of a camera. Perhaps you should pursue photography. It might provide more pleasure than standing here and scanning biscuits and meat. What is it that 'inspirational people' say?" You glance at me, then at the ceiling, then back at the cashier once you remember the phrase. "Ah, yes, follow your dreams. Is this really your dream—" you read the tag on his shirt "—Collin?"_

_Staring wide eyed and slightly frightened at you, Collin is still able to mumble to me: "That'll be 8 pounds."_

_I stuff the money in Collin's hand and wait for the change back, then rush you the hell out of there. When I glance back, Collin is already scanning the next customer's items, but is still looking after you, as if you are both his worst nightmare and a heavenly prophet._

_"That was fun," you say once we are walking in the crowd of people on the pavement. I glance up at you and notice the rising up of the corner of your mouth. "Shopping is not so bad. Collin was pleasant."_

_\---_

And there was that other time we tried to clean out your flat and declutter. This was my own fault, really, having not yet realized the extent you might go to bother John when not under proper supervision.

_"Do you really need this collection of human hair in a jar?" Just holding it up was making me itchy all over. There were lengths and colors of all kinds rolled into a ball of yarn._

_You snatch it out of my hand, inspecting it with care. "Yes. But you can get rid of those five books on the windowsill, and the small frame with the picture of the little boy and girl." You stood up from your chair and left momentarily down the hall, returning with two jumpers. "And these can go, too."_

_"I've never seen you wear these before," I comment, getting up from my spot on the ground. Now that you had forfeited a few things and let me stick them in the spare box I brought, the haul I would be bringing to the jumble sale was looking good—my own pile was smaller than usual considering I recently donated most of my clothing to a thrift store. The jumble sale was being organized by Carl and Evelyn's church, something they did every year to raise money for charity. The human hair collection was not something I wanted to donate, but I thought it might be nice to clean out your flat a bit, in general, and rid it of unneeded things. Last week I found a small pitchfork wedged between the cushions of the couch. Three inches to the left and it would have plucked my bum. Now, though, it looked like the hair collection would stay, much to my dismay; I elected to hide it behind one of the lamps and out of view._

_You dropped the jumpers on my head as you strode past me and went to sit back on your chair. I stopped you just as you maneuvered by me, purposefully knocking your legs against my arm and shoulder. I had you stand still while I shook out the jumpers and held them up to your frame. You heeded, staying completely frozen like a little boy getting his picture taken, watching my fingers as they brushed against you in different spots. Cocking my head to the side to get all the angles and views—I wasn't ashamed to also be checking you out considering you rarely stopped moving unless it was to think quietly in silence, and I wasn't allowed to look at you in those moments—I couldn't believe how long you must have had these for. The end of sleeves barely reached your forearms, and the hem would have tickled at your belly button. Someone would be happy to have them; they were in clean shape at least, though smelled a bit musty._

_"What are you doing with my sweaters?" John stands in the doorway of 221B having come back from some errands._

_I look between the sweaters and John. "These are yours? But Sherlock told me—"_

_You sigh, rolling your eyes. "The florist wanted to declutter our flat for cleaning purposes, thus I gave her—"_

_"My stuff. You gave her my stuff. My stuff is not clutter, Sherlock. I live here," corrects John. I hand him the sweaters and he storms out of the room, shaking his head and muttering under his breath about roommates._

_Tapping my foot, I narrow my eyes at you. "Whose books did you tell me I could take?" The smirk that grew on your face was so subtle, and though we had only been dating for a few months at this point, I knew it was a victorious one. "Sherlock Holmes," I warn, stepping closer to you. "You are lucky John is a forgiving man. You almost gave away his stuff! And I'm assuming this is a picture of him and his sister?" I stoop down to grab the small frame with the fading picture of a boy and girl, their arms around each other._

_You stare stonily at me, hands clasped behind your back. "You should have specified you meant for me to give_ my _stuff away. You just said 'declutter', and John has done nothing but add more to the flat, hence why his stuff is the clutter."_

_"In that case," I glance around the flat, aware that most of the odd knick knacks are probably yours, "is there anything_ you _would like to donate to the jumble sale?"_

_"Nope," you say, then stride past me into the kitchen. "See how easy that was once you took time to specify. We wouldn't have wasted so much time had you done that from the beginning."_

_You fill a kettle and set it on the stove, then stalk over to the table and begin arranging whatever experiment must have come to mind in the course of the last two minutes. Part of me wants to correct you, to tell you how wrong you are:_ nothing _is a waste of time with you. It's just the opposite: the last 29 years of my life have felt like a waste without you; the important times are just now beginning._

\---

"Are you seeing anyone?"

Mary's question comes after the two lovebirds shared their own tale. I chuckle nervously. On one hand, I could say: _Yes, I am in a sort-of, kind-of, not-really relationship with a grouchy robot. We spend all of our time together, kiss, shagged once, but no, we're not dating. In fact, we recently broke up and now we're just friends, even though we've only been friends this entire time, so it's not really possible for_ just friends _to break up. By the way, it's Mycroft Holmes. You remember Mycroft, right John?_

Instead, I shake my head no. "But I am ready to date. If you have, um, any willing participants." It's the alcohol talking, I swear. I never volunteer to be set-up; the set-ups come to me.

John's stare is concentrated, and his mouth looks like a shapely polka dot sticking out from his face as he studies me. Eventually he softens and lets a tiny smirk slip. "What about Greg? He mentioned to me that you two hang out. Quite a bit."

I almost choke on a chip, and it takes a second for the half chewed morsel to slide all the way down my throat. "No. We've hung out plenty, and... I mean he's handsome and all, but not my type. Besides, I'm rooting for him and Molly—"

"What is your type?" John narrows his eyes at me, again. I have the strangest idea he is interrogating me, though I have no idea why. When will he pull out the flashlight and shine it in my face?

But back to the question. My type... _Tall. Suited. Stern. Book snob. Enjoys taffy._

"Average height, casual dresser, kind, playful. Sports fan, too."

John looks to be doing math in his head. Perhaps he wonders why I have listed someone who sounds the exact opposite of you. "You realize you just described Greg?" he says, tapping his fingers and looking pleased, as if he just caught me.

And he totally has. John is completely right. So, I call Greg. We go out and have a wonderful time. The next weekend, we kiss. Sparks fly, hearts skip a beat. We start dating, fall in love, and live happily ever after. I am completely indebted to John Watson for his matchmaking skills. Greg Lestrade and Noreen Jacobs forever!

The end.

Although this humorous situation runs through my mind, I speak against it again. "No. Greg is not an option. Someone outside of this circle of friends would be preferred, no offense. Someone who..."

John and Mary nod slowly in understanding; I am thinking of you. I would enjoy being with someone who is not connected to you, either by blood or friendship. We all know how that turned out, and by we, I mean me. I know how that turned out.

"How about Tim?" Mary asks this like she's won the jackpot, looking happily at John.

"Tim?" I ask, darting my eyes between the couple.

"Tim. He's a coworker," John explains, poking at the crumbs of his plate. He looks up at me. "It might work out," he says, leaning back from the table and observing me, "but Noreen did not list _boring_ as her type, and that's exactly what Tim is."

"No he's not," says Mary, swatting John's arm. "He's a perfectly normal man."

Beside her, John mouths _"boring"_ to me.

"I like boring," I say, nodding my head eagerly. "Boring is good."

John's face is a giveaway, his mouth parted in obvious concern. "Noreen, are you sure—"

"I'm fine, John." I cut him off quickly, and we share a silent conversation with our looks. _Are you ready to move on?_ he asks. _Yes, just as you have,_ and I glance at Mary for good measure. From here on out, he is silenced. And by the end of our little reunion, I am equipped with a date for the next night.

\---

_The next day_

Tim. Red hair is splayed over his forehead, like he never grew out of his childhood haircut. He fits the dishy style of casual: dark jean trousers, a brown jumper with a maroon collar poking out. When he smiles, it's full of teeth that have probably never seen a cavity. Twenty minutes into this "date" and we have only discussed football (fine by me), which, funny enough, he used to play. Due to a torn ACL he was out of commission for a few years, and since then, has always been a little afraid to go 100% on the field again. He's taken to just watching football instead. Somehow, in the first few minutes of our conversation, I managed to invite him to watch one of my games; the words spilled out of my mouth before I could stop them. He happily accepted.

Now, as our food finally arrives, I decide to continue the surface level discussion with a surface level question. I have to stop myself from scarfing down my dinner in one bite, a result of neglecting to eat lunch during work today. "So, Tim, Mary tells me you do office work at the clinic?"

"Yes, the more business side of things." He cuts gently into his chicken and there is a twitch of a vein in his hands. He has wonderful hands. When he first walked in the restaurant, I was stunned at his body type. One could argue I was taller than him, which is something I am used to with my height, but his arms would have no problem picking me up and carrying me off into the sunset. It was revealed later that although he does not play football, he is a dedicated gym rat. And it shows.

"That sounds—"

"Boring," he chuckles, peering sheepishly at me from behind his plate. His eyes are a shade lighter in their brownness than mine, like a roasted tan. "No need to feign interest. Shuffling papers is nowhere near as exciting as flower arranging." Thankfully he is a man who recognizes his own dullness. I rest my shoulders a bit, feeling less pressure to display an interested front. His compliment to me is accepted happily, though I'm not sure if he's being genuine or only making conversation.

It's my turn to look down in slight embarrassment as heat rises up my neck. "Don't get me talking or by the end of the night you'll have enough information to start a flower business on your own."

Patting his mouth with a napkin, he grins. "I enjoy learning new things. Teach me, please. John says you're a wizard with flowers."

Approximately an hour later we exit a cab in front of Barney's. Tim was an ambitious learner at our dinner table, obviously enjoying trying to memorize the scientific names of flowers and what soils they grow in during what times of year. On the way to dropping me at my flat, I offered to stop and show him where my fine shop is located and he obliged joyfully, mentioning something about visiting one day to get flowers for his mother or sister.

Letting out a long whistle, Tim stoops in front of the store windows and catches sight of the bouquets. "Brilliant. Really, they are something. Have you ever had your bouquets featured in a magazine?"

I shake my head. Barney's has relied mostly on word of mouth and loyal customers. Our presence online is minimal seeing that only now have I allowed Becca to create a Facebook page as a stand in for a website.

"Well," says Tim, stepping back towards me, his breath fogging around him, "my mate's partner works at a marketing firm. He might be able to do some advertising for you, if you'd be interested in that."

"That, um, yes, that would be wonderful," I manage to let out. We stand shoulder to shoulder, not touching, staring at the front of the store. "So long as I'm not pictured at all. I tend to be camera shy."

"Understandable, I feel the same way," Tim agrees. He turns his head to me and offers a kind smile, as if to say _you're not alone in that._

A sudden chill creeps up my neck, and the presence of the CCTV cameras fills me with dread. We are out in public, and we have been out in public all night. No doubt there has been a pair of eyes following my every movement, _our_ every movement. Tim won't kiss me, I know this. Our chemistry is on the lower end, an almost undetectable buzzing that may or may not grow with time. Still, the closeness of our shoulders and his continuous glancing at me only makes the pit in my stomach grow larger, a cloud of nervousness multiplying in my gut. I can almost feel the grey eyes cutting into the back of my head through the camera lenses, watching my body language and trying to read my thoughts.

"Ready?" I ask Tim, edging towards the car. He nods and follows suit, opening the door of the taxi that has been patiently purring behind us. We ride the rest of the way in comfortable silence. I am thankful he does not try to make a move, nor does he seem on edge. I wonder what Tim must be thinking about, and when I glance at him, there is a content look on his face as if only pleasant thoughts can drift in and out of his mind. It's refreshing, really, to not have a brooding mister beside you and to always be worried about what they're thinking or feeling.

When we pull up outside my flat, there is no pressure to invite him up. Instead, we simply both agree this will be nice to do again. Next weekend? I'm going home. The weekend after? I'm going home again. Weekend after that? He is venturing up north with friends. Perhaps that next weekend after, then. There doesn't seem to be disappointment in our not seeing each other, however I don't dread having to spend more time with him again. In fact, it may be something I look forward to if that weekend ever comes. We both are mild-mannered enough to not feel any attachment to each other already, thank god. How many first dates has Tim gone on? In the last year alone? He went through the motions of the night in practiced elegance, completely opposite of my stumbling along and trying to remember how to speak to people. I have his number saved in case my plans change and we can see each other sooner. I know they won't change, and I don't want them to either. Three weeks is enough time to spend apart and try again, see if there's something more the next time around.

Up in my flat and freshly showered, with Mister and Missus cuddled against me in bed, I think not of Tim and his kindness, nor his respectable humor, nor how he impressed me with his stories of wicked goalkeeping. Instead, I think of Mycroft. Perhaps this is no surprise, but since feeling the presence of him in the cameras, I have not shook the feeling of his eyes. All the way from the cab, up to my stairs, through the shower, and into bed—he has buzzed like a bee around my head.

He knows. He was watching. There is _no_ doubt. The chances of me having had a private date night is out of question, for he once said to me: _Everyone is given a guardian angel, Noreen. You just so happen to have ten._ I know texting him is a bad idea. There is absolutely no reason to. Mycroft does not need to know my personal business. _But I want him to._ A ball of sickness rolls in my stomach, a sure sign of the nervousness growing. Sooner or later he has to know, and I choose sooner. My fingers shake slightly as I type out the text.

_Thought you should know I went on a date tonight._

My shoulders cringe at what I've said. I am hellbent on changing it, but I press the arrow to send instead. Isn't it funny how we can work against ourselves? Brain against body, heart against head. Moments later, I am typing again.

_And it went well._

I am not sure if the words I choose are out of spite or honesty. The date did go well, but is that a detail Mycroft needs to know? What will he think when he reads it? Is this my way of proving to him I've moved on? Because I have. But he doesn't need to know that.

At the same time, I don't want him to think I am desperate enough for affection that I go searching for it in any ol' bloke. John and Mary were the ones who brought up the idea of dating, I only played along. A companion is not something I need, but god forbid I become someone who purposely destroys any chance at my being happy with any person besides myself.

I force my eyelids to stay open for a few more minutes, eagerly awaiting the buzzing of my phone that now feels like Mycroft himself calling my name, a plea for attention that I long to give. It doesn't come, and though I know he rarely turns into bed before midnight and it's only 10:30pm, I shut my lights off and fall asleep to the sounds of Missus' soft snores.

\---

_The next morning_

My hair has never looked frizzier, my face more sallow and gaping with wounds of fatigue. To look at my reflection is basically self-destruction, and to let another human lay eyes upon me should put me behind bars. There are nights I sleep so hard that my eyes swell in puffiness and my eyelids grow to a bubblish size. Last night was one of those nights.

And today is one of those mornings that Mycroft shows up unannounced at my flat. Well, not unannounced. He informed me earlier this week that he would be over to drop off paint color palettes for the garden shed. Really, the garden was mostly done. Many of the plants had been recently planted, the greenhouse was almost finished, and all that remained were decorative lights, a stone pathway wounding around the planters boxes, and putting up the toolshed. None of the flowers had really bloomed yet, at least not the ones whose seeds we had planted, but we were still waiting on some larger transfers we would buy and that would regrow every season.

"You forgot I would be coming," he says, stepping through my flat door after aggressively knocking for several minutes until I got out of bed. He scans down my body. I at least had the sense to throw on lazy trousers and a bra under my shirt before answering the door. The thought did cross my mind: why cover up what he hasn't already seen? Ah, that's right, because we are supposed to pretend that never happened.

"I didn't forget," I lull, crossing my arms. He dips his head in disbelief. "Fine, I forgot. But in my defense, I had a good reason to forget." Swallowing, I think back to my phone empty of messages this morning when I woke up. He never responded to me. I feared he was angry, but here he stands before me and acting in normal Mycroft fashion. There was even a little color in his cheeks, a healthy expression that told me he slept well and enjoyed a nice breakfast. "Did you get my text last night?"

His brows grow close together, small wrinkles forming in the middle. "What text?"

Panicking, I pull at my sleeves and wet my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. He looks taller than usual, despite not wearing shoes with a heel. His eyes are moving between mine, waiting for an answer. "Well, um, I went on a date last night." My vision is glued to the floor, pouring over my socked foot in comparison to his shiny shoe. "And it went well."

When looking back up at him, I brace myself for a certain face, one that is sure to slice the air with its chill. But he is bent over, forward, leaning down to pet Mister who rubs against his legs. His fingers scratch behind Mister's ears and a soft purr erupts from the kitten's throat. Mycroft straightens up, an entirely unreadable look on his face. It is a blank sheet of printer paper—not an etch of font, color, or ink is splotched anywhere on him. If I thought his face was impassible, what he says is just as much:

"Okay."

"Okay?" I ask.

He frowns. "Is there another response you expect from me?"

_Steady, Noreen. Deep breaths._ "No," I say, ignoring the high strung note hanging on my voice, "not at all. That's a great response. Perfect, actually. I'm-well-we're friends, so, I just thought maybe you should know. That's all."

He throws me an offbeat look, then immediately turns to business as he pulls a few strips of color from inside his suit. Today it is a crisp, charcoal wool. "A paint color. Mr. Duncan needs your answer by Wednesday so he can put an order in and have it delivered by Friday, then his team can finish the construction on Monday and begin painting later next week."

It's my turn for a simple response. "Okay," I breathe, accepting the paint strips and throwing them on the dining table. Who can talk about paint strips at a time like this? He should be burning with jealousy and calling me foolish for being with another man.

"Well," Mycroft says, letting his eyes drift around my flat before they find their way back to me, "that's all I came here for. I'm afraid other errands require my attention. Will you be in the office at all this week?" He is referring to _his_ office, at _his_ home, also known as _our_ office now, or _the_ office (implying that it is ours). I did not expect him to be a keen sharer.

"Yes." Words are hard to form right now.

"What days?" He brushes some invisible dust off of his suit and purses his lips absentmindedly. If I had a lint roller at hand, I would be happy to run it over his clothes for him, to do anything for him.

"I-I don't know. I don't know right now," I sigh. "When I figure it out, I'll text you."

"Hopefully I will receive your message this time." He winks ever so slightly, then turns and lets himself out the door.

If I was a different person, a braver person maybe, I would stomp after Mycroft and demand he give a fuck about what I just told him. And tell him to never wink at me again. And make him tell the truth about my text, whether he actually received it or not. But I am not a braver person; the cowardly hat is easier to wear today, more fitting to my swelling and prideful head. 

It's surprisingly easy to spend the rest of the day forcing myself to be excited about seeing Tim again in a few weeks. Maybe he isn't such a bad bloke. After all, I _like_ boring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said I was excited to write the next chapter? Bahahaha I meant I was excited to make all of you upset with what I was going to write !!! Hope it worked ;-)
> 
> The reason these chapters take me so long is the research, honestly. I have never visited Europe, let alone London specifically, so I am very out of touch with words/concepts/how everything works over there. 75% of my time is spent scrolling through the web and trying to figure out what an average shopping trip in London is like, the stores that are there, etc., just so I can write a short memory with Sherlock, haha. I am dedicated to writing accurately! Also, I spent most of this week watching interviews with British celebs. I freaking love Martin Freeman.
> 
> I have never shared this because I just came to this conclusion, but I do write the chapters in this fic to the theme of songs that get stuck in my head. So, instead of making you go back to each chapter and look at the song that is the theme, I will list 1-18 here. If you don't care, then skip past! And refrain from the judgments of my music taste, please :-) These are just a potpourri of whatever I hum and sing throughout the days! Like I'm not joking - there is a mix of almost everythang. Comment if there's a song you think might fit in well, or if there's one stuck in your head at the moment!
> 
> 1\. "I Will Love You to Grave," by Casey Hurt  
> 2\. "I Still Miss You" by Keith Anderson  
> 3\. "Girls Like You" by Maroon 5, feat Cardi B  
> 4\. "Who You'd Be Today" by Kenny Chesney  
> 5\. "In the Still of the Night" by The Five Satins  
> 6\. "All Our Endless Love" by the bird and the bee, feat Matt Berninger  
> 7\. "I Melt With You" by Modern English  
> 8\. "Try Me" by James Brown  
> 9\. "The Story of Us" by Taylor Swift  
> 10\. "exile" by Taylor Swift feat Bon Iver  
> 11\. "Hot n Cold" by Katy Perry  
> 12\. "Only Time" by Enya  
> 13\. "My Life Would Suck Without You" by Kelly Clarkson  
> 14\. "Wouldn't It Be Nice" by The Beach Boys  
> 15\. "Eros" by Nicholas Britell  
> 16\. "My Life" by Billy Joel  
> 17\. "Since U Been Gone" by Kelly Clarkson  
> 18\. "Cruel to be Kind" by Nick Lowe
> 
> Okay that is all, my lovely readers. I have spoiled you with posting chapters so quickly, but I'm afraid I will have a longer absence between this and the next one (most likely 7-10 days). It is almost finals week for me, so there is lots of grading + my own assignments I must turn in. 
> 
> Thanks for being the best. I do not deserve all the love you give this story! It is greatly, sincerely, genuinely appreciated.
> 
> P.S. Happy International Women's Day!!!


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